~Chapter Eight~
In the Balance
Temple of Aegoth, Caras
Kingdom of Cedirc
7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.
Early Afternoon
Herocas was pacing back and forth in the cavernous hallway outside the infirmary door, and seemed not to notice as Rabberick approached, escorted by the staunchly silent Valencia through the eerily empty halls of the Temple of Aegoth.
The acolyte of Aegoth had remained quiet on the journey from the wall, refusing to answer any of the questions Rabberick had thrown her way, and eventually the commander had tired of the one-sided conversation, acquiescing to her stubborn silence.
Without conversation to keep him occupied, he had immediately noticed the lack of petitioners in the courtyard before the temple as they had passed through to ascend the stairs to the mezzanine. Likewise, the complete absence of any of the clergy within, aside from those who had been watching the doors and had opened and shut them firmly behind the pair once they had entered, had struck Rabberick profoundly.
He had never seen the temple so empty during the day.
Though he was not a frequent visitor, on those occasions he had had need to visit, songs of worship had constantly echoed up and down the halls, competing with the droning of religious sermons and heated debates about the teachings of their patron deity. It often got so loud that one could not hear themselves think! Today, though…
Today, it is deathly silent.
Rabberick winced at the unbidden parallel, immediately disliking the connotations.
One look at Herocas, gold edged crimson robes swishing about his sandaled feet as he hurriedly paced back and forth, muttering to himself, did little to alleviate his concerns. Seeing the normally composed High Priest so obviously agitated only heightened his sense of dread.
The brown haired man seemed not to notice them at all as they approached, so lost in thought was he. Valencia put her hand out to bid Rabberick stop a few feet from the High Priest’s path, and clasped her hands in front of her, clearly content to wait. After the third time Herocas passed them by, with no indication he saw them, Rabberick reached a hand towards him, mouth opening to ask the obvious question.
“We shall wait for Malute, Rabberick,” the High Priest said brusquely, blue eyes glancing at him as he paused momentarily just out of the commander’s reach. Rabberick looked into his friend’s face, noting the dark circles around his eyes and complete lack of light in the normally sparkling eyes with concern, but nodded and stepped back, moving out of the way of the priest’s pacing.
“Orneth should be returning with the High Mage any moment, Commander,” Valencia spoke in her soft voice from beside him.
He shot her a glance as Herocas continued his nervous pacing, “How do you know that?”
“He was dispatched the same time I was to bring the High Mage here, as I was bidden to retrieve you,” the acolyte explained, eyes watching the High Priest as he passed in front of them again.
The auburn haired acolyte bowed her head a few moments later as Herocas halted his pacing once again, stopping directly in front of her. He considered her for a long moment before speaking.
“Acolyte.”
“Yes, High Priest?” she kept her eyes lowered, staring at the golden open eyed palm sigil of Aegoth that was embroidered on the chest Herocas’ robes, over his heart.
“You are dismissed, Valencia,” his tone was much gentler than it had been when he had addressed the commander, almost back to what was normal for the pious man, “Thank you for your help. Go and get some rest now, and speak of nothing you have seen or heard to anyone.”
The young woman bowed, her long, auburn hair falling to wither side of her narrow face, and held her left hand up, palm facing Herocas in the traditional prayer of Aegoth. When Herocas returned the gesture, the acolyte bowed again to Rabberick, then quickly departed, heading back down the long hall a ways before disappearing down a side corridor.
Rabberick watched her go until he was out of sight before returning his regard to Herocas once more. He saw a bit of warmth on the High Priest’s face as he, too, watched the acolyte take her leave, but it disappeared so quickly that the commander could not be certain it had been there at all, replaced once more by the tired, concerned visage that had greeted him minutes earlier. Herocas met his eyes briefly, then quickly looked away, crossing the hall to lean against the sill of one of the ornate stained glass windows that lined the west wall of the temple, staring through the coloured glass, though Rabberick was certain he was not really seeing anything that was happening in the castle grounds beyond. No doubt the High Priest was lost in thought once more, floundering—as he himself had been since he had left Alfred in Herocas’ care earlier that morning.
He could not let Herocas keep spiraling. He knew all too well how hopeless that was.
“She does her job well,” he noted, stepping across the hall to join the priest by the window, leaning against the cool stone of the wall so he could watch his friend.
His words had the desired effect. Herocas turned his head to look at Rabberick, blinking his eyes as he again focused on the world around him.
“Valencia,” he clarified, when the High Priest gave him a puzzled look, “She serves your god well.”
“Aegoth is all of our god, Rabberick, even you, though you do your best to deny him,” Herocas nodded, the corners of his lips pulling up in a wan smile as he wagged a finger at him, “ And yes, she is almost ready for the trials. I expect she will be made a full cleric before much longer. She has been most studious and attentive in her time here, and has proven especially invaluable in the infirmary of late.”
“Including last night?”
The High Priest threw him a look, telling the commander in no uncertain terms that he had indeed caught the less than subtle attempt to get more information from him ahead of Malute’s arrival, “That is why I brought her with me to wait for the attempt, yes. Her and Orneth both are quite skilled at the art of healing, though I must say that Orneth has done a better job at remaining detached from his patients.”
“Is detachment a desirable trait for a healer? I would have thought empathy more important in a healer.”
“The two are not mutually exclusive, Commander. Orneth is more capable of ignoring any personal attachments from those he works on, whereas Valencia feels pity each time a patient of hers feels pain. His traits make Orneth more efficient, less scrupulous about causing pain, making him more willing to do what needs to be done to help his patient, regardless of discomfort. Valencia, on the other hand, will often avoid doing procedures if she thinks they will cause the patient pain or discomfort. While that is not necessarily an undesirable trait in a healer by any means, but if left unchecked it can hold her back from doing what is needed, out of a desire to spare them further pain.,” Herocas seemed to relax as he adopted an almost lecturing tone. He stopped when he noticed Rabberick’s slight grin, adding, “But, of course, you already knew that. You have seen far too many healers in your life to not.”
“I have indeed, for myself, and for others. Thankfully more of the latter,” Rabberick admitted, “And it is the same while guarding someone. Too much attachment and you may take uncalled for risks, too little and you may be derelict in your duty.”
“Indeed,” the priest agreed, and his face fell in the brief moment before he turned to stare out the window once more.
Without asking, Rabberick knew they were thinking the same thing.
Silence stretched between the two following the priest’s simple and unintentionally damning reply, and Rabberick knew there would be no more discussion until the mage arrived. He was not sure if he was disappointed at that realization, as he found that all desire for conversation had drained from him. He rolled so his back was flush against the wall, staring blankly at the flagstones of the floor as he, too, began to spiral once more.
The rhythmic tap-tapping of Malute’s staff on the floor echoing down the hall broke the two from their thoughts a mercifully short time later. Both men turned towards the entrance hall as the magus and Orneth came into sight around the corner.
The commander noted immediately that Malute was not holding himself with as much authority as he usually did, and, indeed, seemed to be relying on his staff to hold himself up. His eyes had the same dark circles under them that Herocas’ did, and his normally neatly combed black hair had tufts sticking out here and there. He was not sure he had ever seen the mage looking this disheveled—though he was sure that he looked no better himself, and was glad there was no mirror for him to look into.
As Malute, who had fallen behind Orneth since entering the temple, his energy clearly waning, arrived, the acolyte hurried off, heading the same direction Valencia had earlier, having received the same instructions and dismissal from the High Priest that his fellow acolyte had. The three men watched Orneth disappear down the same corridor she had, only turning to face one another as the last hint of red fabric had vanished down the adjoining passage, leaving the three of them alone.
Rabberick and Malute both eyed Herocas expectantly, waiting for the priest to begin. With a sigh, the High Priest gestured to the infirmary door, “We should step inside. It would not do for errant ears to hear.”
The commander glanced both ways down the hall, confirming that they remained alone—as they had since his arrival, save for the acolytes—and wondering who Herocas thought could be listening, but did not argue. He supposed that, though he had seen no one else in his short time there, that in and of itself did not mean that no one would wander by now. It seemed only prudent, if not slightly ominous.
He hoped it was only prudence.
With those words hanging in the air, the High Priest closed a trembling hand on the pull of one of the double doors and pulled it open, gesturing his companions inside. With a shared look of consternation, the other two obliged, Rabberick following the mage into the well-lit room beyond.
Like the hallway they had just left, the room ahead was mostly empty. None of the dozens of beds held a patient, save for one at the far end of the room, near a door that the commander knew lead to a storeroom and, beyond that, to the surgery.
On that bed lay a figure, and even from though the distance was too great for the commander to make out any features, the crimson hue of his skin where it was not covered by white sheets told him beyond any doubt the patient’s identity. Next to the King stood another red robed acolyte, who stood with hands clasped and head bowed, as if he were praying.
Rabberick could not tell if the King breathed.
He jumped as the door thudded shut behind him, and turned as he heard the familiar thunk of a locking bar being put in place.
“We do not want just anyone wandering in,” the priest explained in answer to Rabberick’s arched brow, sweeping past the commander and magus with quick strides towards the occupied bed.
Following behind the swift moving priest, they quickly passed row after row of empty beds, all dressed in white linens and ready to host patients. Shelves of ointments, unguents, salves, poultices, potions, bandages, and a wide assortment of medical implements lined the outer walls between each row of beds, all meticulously organized. Hearths blazed at regular intervals between the shelves, filling the room with heat as multi armed candelabras provided strong light. The wave of warmth that washed over Rabberick as he followed Herocas made him realize just how cool the empty hall of the temple had been without the usual hustle and bustle of clergymen and parishioners.
The room was deathly silent as the trio made their way to the far end, broken only by their footfalls, the steady clacking of Malute’s staff, and the crackle of logs in the hearths. At an unspoken cue, the acolyte who stood over the King bowed and moved away from his bed as the group approached, heading swiftly for the storage room door. The wooden door swung quietly on well oiled hinges, closing with a dull thud behind the departing cleric. Bidding his companions wait by the King’s bed, Herocas moved to the door and, as he had with the first set of doors, placed a locking bar in place across the opening, ensuring that it would just be the three of them with the King.
This done, Herocas moved back to stand across the bed upon which the King lay, clasping his hands in front of himself as he faced the commander and magus, both of whom peered intently at the rose coloured face of the King with concern.
“He is alive.”
The words were a relief to Rabberick, and he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest, allowing him to breath easier. He saw Malute, too, standing taller at the priests words. From the rosy complexion of the King’s usually crimson face, Rabberick had not been sure, and had been unable to tell if he still breathed. As he watched, he noted the almost imperceptible rise and fall of the sheets. Yes, King Alfred was still with them, though his breaths were far too shallow and spread out for him to last much longer, the commander feared.
“Barely,” Malute noted in a voice carefully devoid of emotion.
Rabberick did not disagree; his heart lurched at seeing his dear friend in such a condition.
“He is in dire straits,” Herocas admitted in a quiet voice, “But he fights on.”
“Poison,” Malute more stated than asked, and Rabberick nodded his agreement with the magus’ assertion, shuddering slightly as he recalled the charred looking edges of the wound, with the thin wisps of smoke rising from it.
“And a nasty one at that,” the priest agreed, shaking his head sadly, “I have never seen it before, and have only heard tales of it. It is called hazca razith, and it is usually fatal if it gets within the slightest of wounds… That Alfred has survived this long and still continues to fight it is nothing short of incredible.”
“He has always been strong,” Rabberick stated, “That is surely no surprise.”
“It is a favourite of assassins and hired killers in foreign lands because of its assured lethality, Rabberick,” Herocas replied, “I do not know how he has not passed into Morith’s realm.”
“There is no cure?” Malute asked, “No serum or antivenin?”
“No… none that we have here.”
“So one exists,” Rabberick pressed, latching onto faint glimmer of hope Herocas’ reply gave him.
“Yes, but…” the High Priest trailed off.
“But?” Rabberick urged him on, hearing the desperation in his own voice.
Herocas sighed, shifting his gaze between his two friends before settling on Alfred once more, “We have never encountered it here before, and so we have none on hand. And I fear it would take too long to get any.”
“But we have to try!” Rabberick almost shouted, looking to Malute for support.
“Which foreign lands?” the magus asked, staring intently at Herocas.
“Malute—”
“Which foreign lands, Herocas?” Malute repeated, cutting the priest’s response off.
“Eno’Kalia,” Herocas admitted, looking apologetically at the mage, whose hands had tightened upon his black staff at the response, “It is said to come from the glands of a monster that dwells in the sands of the Black Desert.”
“A manticore,” Malute stated, meeting Herocas’ eyes once more, hands white as they twisted about the haft of his staff as if strangling it.
“That is what I have read, yes,” Herocas replied.
“So the Eno’Kalian’s are behind this attack?” Rabberick asked no one in particular.
“No!” Malute’s emphatic reply startled both of his companions, and he reiterated in a more controlled voice, “No, I do not believe that to be the case.”
“But the poison came from their island,” the commander reasoned.
“And is the blacksmith responsible for whomever an assassin kills, then?” Malute snarled, swinging a glare on the commander, who took a wary step away from the magus, “Does every life claimed by a bow lie at the feet of the fletcher who made the arrows?”
“Of course not, Malute,” Herocas hurried around the bed, placing himself between the commander and the magus. “I am sure that is not what Rabberick meant to imply. The poison being from Eno’Kalia does not mean that they are behind this attempt on the King,” he turned his head towards Rabberick, “Does it?”
“I—no, of course it doesn’t,” Rabberick sighed, running a hand through his hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Forgive me, Malute. I spoke in haste.”
Malute eyed the commander over the priest’s shoulder through narrowed eyes for a long moment before he, too, let out a long breath and stepped back. He took several deep breaths and seemed to calm himself before trusting himself to speak once more.
“There is nothing to forgive, Rabberick,” the magus sighed again, “We are all of us on edge. You made the logical conclusion from Herocas’ news, and the one that the populace will draw as well if word of this gets out.”
“Which is why I needed to ensure our privacy,” Herocas agreed, moving back around the bed to stand opposite the others once more.
“So if this has… hezna… hazcro…” the commander fumbled over the unfamiliar words.
“Hazca razith,” Herocas offered.
“Right, right, hazca razith. So, if this hazca razith is from Eno’Kalia, there is a chance that the delegates will know of a cure?” Rabberick asked.
“I doubt it,” Malute answered before Herocas could, drawing the commanders attention, “I highly doubt they would have traveled expecting to be poisoned with a venom from their lands, commander.”
“But there is a chance,” Rabberick pressed.
“I suppose there could be,” Malute relented, letting the commander keep a glimmer of hope alive, “But I would not trust to that,” he eyed Herocas, “Is there nothing else that can be done?”
“From what I have been told, victims of hazca razith do not usually live long enough without the antivenin for a cure to be found,” he pulled a wet cloth from a nearby basin of water and wrung it out before placing it on Alfred’s head, where small beads of sweat could be seen, “Truthfully, I cannot even say how the King has managed to fight it for as long as he has.”
“It must have to do with…” Malute gestured to Alfred’s skin.
“And we know little enough about that,” Herocas agreed, shaking his head, “He returned from the north changed, and has remained tight lipped about it ever since. If I knew more about what caused this… condition of his, perhaps I could say more.
Rabberick shared a look with Malute at the priest’s statement, both hearing clearly the unspoken question. Neither made any move to respond.
Herocas sighed, and leaned forwards, putting his hands on the King’s bed, “I know you were both there. You both fought in the Ilvarri War beside King Alfred, and you were both at the final battle. I have never pressed you for information before, in spite of my curiosity. But now whatever happened could hold the key to saving his life!”
Rabberick met Malute’s gaze once again in the wake of Herocas’ plea, wanting to give answer but knowing he could not. He shook his head slightly when he saw that Malute was clearly debating giving answer to the priest.
“If I am to have a chance at saving the King, I need to know what happened,” Herocas implored as the silence dragged on.
“We can’t—” Rabberick began to deny the priest, but was cut off as Malute asked, “What do you know of the last years of the war?”
“Rumours, mostly,” Herocas frowned, brow furrowed in thought, “I was still an acolyte myself at the time, and far removed from the battles. I only heard stories from those I treated,” he looked from Malute to Rabberick, then back to the magus, “We were losing the war. The ilvarri were slowly pushing us back when a new threat emerged, something neither us nor the ilvarri had ever encountered before. Something stronger than either of us. I never understood what I was told of that threat, though. Something about red-skinned creatures with the head of a wolf on the body of a man. Most of what I heard was from unconscious ramblings. Those who returned of sound mind remained tight lipped about it. As you both have,” Herocas crossed his arms across his chest, standing tall once more as he waited for a response.
“Gal’roth,” Malute said after a long moment.
“Malute!” Rabberick snapped, turning a fierce scowl upon the magus.
“What?” Herocas asked, not recognizing the word.
“They were called the gal’roth,” Malute said, ignoring Rabberick’s continued glare.
“The creatures?”
“Yes,” Malute confirmed, opening his mouth to say more, but instead grunting as Rabberick grabbed his arm, turning the magus to face him.
“We were sworn to secrecy,” Rabberick growled through his teeth at the mage, “We swore an oath to Alfred to never talk of it.”
“Of what?” Herocas asked, but was ignored by both of the other men.
Rabberick’s nostrils flared as he glared at the mage’s impassive face, his own face only inches from the magus’.
“That oath won’t matter if the King dies, Rabberick,” Malute stated in a voice thick with emotion.
Rabberick rocked back on his heels at the simple statement.
His mind was sent whirling at the mage’s logic, for he found he could not argue it. And yet he had sworn an oath to Alfred—they both had! For that matter, the whole of the surviving army had, not that that had amounted to much once all had been said and done in the far-off northern reaches of Shetna Forest. Rumours had long been passed amongst the citizens of not only Caras but of Cedirc at large regarding what exactly had happened to King Alfred at that final, decisive battle. Alfred DeCarren had left Caras a young man in his prime, black haired and tan of skin, like most native Cedircians. He had returned changed.
An abomination, in many people’s eyes.
Though the man who was Alfred DeCarren had remained unchanged, the physical appearance of the King had been irrevocably altered. He had heard many theories and rumours about those changes over the years, from those as simple as a pact being made and subsequently broken with a demon—as if Alfred would ever consort with demons—to complicated ones involving shapeshifters and Alfred being replaced by a duplicate somehow. Some had even hit close to the truth, Rabberick knew, closer to the truth than any who knew it were comfortable with. But still, none who had sworn the oath would break it. Alfred had earned the loyalty of those who fought with him against the ilvarri and, immediately after, the gal’roth a thousand over and more.
But would holding to that oath matter if it meant that Alfred would die?
The commander looked down upon the pale, pink face of his beloved King, the man who had sacrificed so much for his people—more than they would ever know. Alfred would not hesitate to do what was needed to save his people.
He never had.
Rabberick could do no less for his King.
Taking a deep breath, reconciling the choice he was making and knowing full well that there would be no taking it back, he nodded his agreement to Malute.
“So be it,” he said aloud, voice thick with begrudging acceptance.
“The creatures you heard described in fever dreams are called the gal’roth,” Malute said immediately following Rabberick’s agreement, telling the commander that it had not really mattered what decision he had reached as the magus focused on Herocas once more, “They came from the north, from within the Fareltzar Mountains even as we fought the ilvarri within Shetna Forest. At first, we thought them allies or tools of the ilvarri, but we soon learned better. Those beasts did not discriminate between human and ilvar—both of our kind were but one thing to them: prey. Food.”
“They are—were—vicious beasts,” Rabberick added, deciding that if they were going to break their oath, they may as well give Herocas all the information he needed, “In the first encounter with them, an entire legion was lost, almost to the man. They were torn limb from limb and eaten. And it was done in that order, if they were lucky. If not…” the commander shuddered, fighting off distant memories of the vicious monsters. He had been just a lowly recruit back then, so eager to prove himself. That eagerness had soon faded, as the horrors the gal’roth inflicted upon their victims had come again and again, one after the other in a seemingly endless stream of atrocities. He cleared his throat and managed to add, “A handful escaped that first encounter to warn the rest of us.”
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“The ilvarri fared no better than us,” Malute took over once more, “Hundreds of there kin were slaughtered without warning, before they even knew the creatures existed. Once it became apparent that the beasts would attack anyone, Alfred sent envoys to the ilvarri leader, successfully convincing them that fighting each other was pointless so long as the gal’roth existed. And so the Ilvarri war ended, and at the same time a new war began. The Gal’roth War, though none outside of those if us who were there know of it. The last few years the army was in Shetna, we did not fight the ilvarri, but rather fought beside them against a common enemy.”
“That is all very interesting,” Herocas interjected, waving an arm in front of him, “but what does all of this have to do with Alfred’s condition?”
“Have you not pieced it together, priest?” Malute asked, seemingly genuine in his surprise.
“How could I?” Herocas protested, “You have told me nothing but history!”
“The creatures were as you heard described, Herocas,” Rabberick said quietly, “Those you treated were not having fever dreams or rambling incoherently. They were describing what they had seen.”
Herocas gave the commander a considering look, narrowing his eyes in thought. They widened suddenly, shooting to Alfred’s face, voice trembling as he said, “Crimson skinned.”
“Just so,” Malute confirmed, pausing before adding, “After two years of fighting the gal’roth, we had managed to push them back to the northeastern reaches of Shetna Forest. During one of the last battles, strong magics were unleashed, and the King was struck. I am admittedly not sure of all the details, but the changes to him are readily apparent to all,” Malute finished, gesturing to the King.
Herocas stared at the magus, clearly expecting him to go on, but Malute remained silent, uncertainty clear in his eyes as he considered Alfred’s still form.
“We’ve told him this much,” Rabberick prompted as the silence went on.
“It is well that we are alone,” Malute glanced at the commander, then, with a deep sigh, continued, “In order to stop the gal’roth hordes, a large amount of vita was required,” the magus hesitated again, considering his words carefully as he went on, “More than the combined might of the army’s magi and the ilvarri spellsingers could bring to bear on their own,” he met Herocas’ eyes.
The High Priest’s eyes widened in shock as he gasped, “You don’t mean…?”
Malute closed his eyes, unable to meet those of the priest as he nodded, “The decision was made to use the very essence of the gal’roth against themselves. In order to harness more power, the magi and spellsingers were ordered to seize the vita from within those beasts and use it to fuel their own spells.”
“But that is forbidden!” the High Priest exclaimed, eyes darting to the King, “Alfred—”
“Was desperate,” Malute interrupted, raising his hands in front of him to calm the priest, “It was not a choice we came to lightly, Herocas. And it was not an order that Alfred gave easily, I can assure you of that.”
“It was not one that ever sat well with him either,” Rabberick added, trying to alleviate some of the tension that had risen in the room with Malute’s revelations to Herocas, “In spite of the outcome, he has always regretted the way we won that battle.”
“We were desperate, Herocas. There was no other way,” Malute added, a hint of pleading in his voice, asking Herocas to understand.
Herocas raised a hand, silently asking them to say no more as he looked down at Alfred, contemplating all that he had been told. A silent war was being fought within him, Rabberick knew, and he could only hope that Herocas kept faith in the man he loved as a brother.
“Alfred, how could you?” the High Priest asked in a raw voice at last, sinking to his knees beside the bed, “How could you do such a thing?”
No answer came from the unconscious King.
“Alfred has often told me that what was done to win the war—stealing the very life-force of the gal’roth and using it against them—is the very reason he felt the need to build this temple, and to help as many of his people as he could,” Rabberick responded on behalf of the King, feeling the need to defend him when he could not himself defend his choices.
Herocas raised a tear-streaked face to regard him through watery eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“He was trying to atone,” Malute added, clearly feeling the same guilt at having broken his oath to the King that Rabberick now felt, no matter their reasons for doing so, “Alfred is the person you think he is, Herocas. He was faced with an impossible decision, and has had to live with it ever since,” he met Rabberick’s eyes, “We all have.”
“But… But why would he not tell me?” the confused priest asked.
He was ashamed and did not want more people to know what had happened, would be my best guess,” Malute said, looking up on Alfred’s peaceful visage once again, “It is why he has been so dogged in his pursuit of peace with Eno’Kalia. He has had enough of war.”
The High Priest gave no response as he stared into the pale rose face of his King, mulling over all he had just been told. His face twisted through a multitude of emotions, flashing between anger, disbelief, shock, sorrow, and countless others as Rabberick watched him struggle to digest it. He and Malute shared another look but remained silent, knowing the priest needed to sift through these revelations on his own, but the commander could not help but fidget, shifting side to side as the silence dragged on. Malute’s fingers tapped rhythmically on his staff, telling the commander that the magus, too, was suppressing the urge to hurry the priest along. But they had just changed the godly man’s perception of his dear King, and such revelations could not be rushed. And so they waited.
Finally, the sandy haired man nodded and let out a long, slow breath. He straightened and looked at the other two.
“So, what went wrong?”
“The casting was… interrupted,” Malute replied haltingly, searching for the right words.
“Those dog faced bastards proved smarter than we had expected,” Rabberick explained for the magus in a voice little more than a growl, “Even with hundreds—thousands!—of them lying dead and withered, they continued to fight,” he looked to Malute as he finished, bidding the magus to pick up the tale as he added, “They targeted our casters.”
“And they—nay, we—lost control of the gathered energies of the vitarus,” pain at the memory was evident in the magus’ uncharacteristically raw voice as he took up the retelling, “The pent up vita sought release, as it always does. It is what makes holding it for too long so dangerous, as you well know.”
Herocas nodded acknowledgement of that fact, but did not speak, so Malute continued his recollection.
“Those of us still standing, human and ilvar alike, did our best to regain control, but it was too little. Too many of us had been killed. We had overextended ourselves, overestimated our abilities. And many of us paid the price,” his normally tan face paled visibly as he took a steadying breath before continuing, “The lucky ones were killed outright, their life energies added to the growing storm and their bodies left as no more than withered, desiccated husks on the fertile forest floor… the same as the corpses of the gal’roth whose energy we stole. The unlucky ones…” Malute visibly suppressed a shudder, “The unlucky ones, including my old master, had the ability to cast torn from them, their link to the vitarus severed by the raw tendrils of energy gathered. Alfred, ever needing to lead by example, though he could do naught to aid the casting, had been with the gathered magi. He caught struck by one of the snaking tendrils of uncontrolled, raw vita.”
Rabberick shot the mage a puzzled look at those words. Herocas, entranced by the telling and once more looking upon Alfred’s face, appeared not to notice. The mage gave the commander a quick shake of the head; it appeared they would not tell Herocas all, then. The commander nodded, and settled back on his heels once more, crossing his arms across his chest, content to let the magus continue the tale lest he unintentionally reveal more than Malute wanted. He was certain that whatever the magus said next would stretch the truth.
That did not stop him from wondering why Malute had omitted or changed certain details, however. He resolved to find out later.
After they had saved Alfred.
“What happened next I am admittedly less certain about,” Malute was saying when Rabberick returned his attention to the regaling, “What so utterly killed and destroyed the lives of so many only served to… change him into the person we see before us. I can only speculate as to what happened, but… The skin of the gal’roth was crimson, Herocas,” the magus’ use of the priest’s name drew his regard to him. Malute could only shrug in response to the growing horror in the priest’s eyes as realization dawned on his worn features, “The skin of the King is now crimson. Beyond that, he has stayed in his physical prime far longer than he should have. And… well, you have seen his fits of rage, Herocas. They are still mercifully uncommon, as they were before his transformation, but when they happen, they are almost bestial in nature, are they not?
Herocas took a long step back from the bed that held the King, trembling hands rising to pull out the open-eyed hand symbol of Aegoth that hand about his neck on a thong from beneath his robes, clasping the holy symbol tight in both hands.
“Y-you can’t be saying… no, no you can’t be!” the poor priest stammered, knuckles turning white as he gripped the holy symbol tighter, eyes wide with shock and horror.
“As I said, we do not know for certain what happened,” Malute said in as calm a voice as he could manage, trying—and failing—to ease the distressed priest’s fears.
“But Alfred… he-he is one of them now?”
“Does he have the head of a wolf?” Malute retorted angrily. He closed his eyes and added in a more level tone, “No, he is not one of them.”
“But his skin!”
“He shares some of their traits, yes. But beyond that…” Malute trailed off and shrugged again, “I cannot say. But we have watched him closely in the years since the war ended, Herocas. He is not one of them,” he reiterated firmly.
“Then what is he?” The High Priest demanded, clearly still distressed.
“He is Alfred DeCarren, our friend and King!”
The proclamation, torn from somewhere deep within him, startled the commander with its intensity and volume near as much as it did the other two in the room, who turned disbelieving looks upon him. Flames crackled and sap-filled logs popped in the ensuing silence following the outburst. Rabberick glared at Malute—this was what he had wanted to avoid, they could not afford the High Priest panicking while Alfred’s life hung in the balance—and softened it to a stern look as he swung his regard to the priest, who still clutched his holy symbol tight in both hands.
“He is Alfred DeCarren,” the commander repeated in a controlled tone as he shoved his anger down once more, “He is the same man now that he was before that battle—at least inside. That is what matters, not what he looks like. If a man came back horribly burned beyond recognition, but sound of mind, you would not immediately think him evil. It is no different with the King. Despite the physical changes, he remained—remains—the same man he was before that day in Shetna Forest. He is not one of those monsters!” he finished firmly, definitively, glaring once more at Malute, as if daring him to argue.
After giving the commander a wary—and appraising—look, Malute nodded his agreement. Rabberick felt himself relax slightly at the nod, feeling a mix of shame and pride. His shame was founded in that he knew Malute did not think Alfred evil, and in the continued deception they fed Herocas with these half truths. His pride was from the fact that he had rendered the mage speechless with his vehement defense of the King, and that he had not remained silent, as he so often did in the magus’ presence. Magic unnerved him deeply and so did those that practiced that craft.
More importantly in that moment, however, Herocas even seemed to have relaxed slightly, loosening his grip on his holy symbol, though he still held it firmly within his grip.
“No, Herocas,” Malute said at length, and Rabberick realized he had been making sure the commander was done his tirade before adding his own assurances to the High Priest, “Alfred did not become one of those beasts. The best theory the Conclave could agree on is that, just like the vita that sustains the undead abominations that wander the Ashlands is twisted, so too is that of the gal’roth—and it is that that has caused the changes within our King. Those that are obvious, and those that are less subtle as well.”
Herocas had closed his eyes as he listened to Malute’s explanation, inhaling and exhaling at a controlled rate as he listened to his companions, his friends. As the magus finished, the High Priest’s mouth moved in silent prayer; neither Rabberick nor Malute made any move to disturb him, understanding that the pious man needed to finish communing with his god. At length, he pried his white hands from around the symbol of his god, tucking it beneath his robes once more, and raised his head to eye his companions. He wiped his sweaty palms on the crimson fabric of his robes, leaving a deeper stain where the moisture soaked in, then opened and closed both hands repeatedly, stretching out fingers that were sore from gripping the amulet so tight for so long.
The sandy haired priest stepped forward once more, so that he was beside the King, and looked upon him for a moment before speaking in soft voice.
“I did not know Alfred well before he left to fight in Shetna—hardly at all, truth be told,” his voice, which had been shaky at first, gained strength and surety as he continued, “But I do now, and to say that he is one of the most generous and benevolent people I have ever known is an understatement, to be sure. There are many in my order who could learn a thing or two from him about devotion to Aegoth! He can be stubborn, yes, and prone to fits of rage, but above all that he is giving and caring.”
It sounded to Rabberick as if the priest were trying to convince himself, and he fought hard against saying anything at all, knowing he had to sort through all the new information on his own. Beside him, Malute seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for the priest to continue.
“Yes, Alfred is a good person,” he said with conviction, meeting the eyes of his companions for the first time in a long while, “One who has been forced to make hard, even questionable decisions, perhaps, but a good man nonetheless. More so, for how he has tried to make up for those deeds!”
Rabberick could not quite contain a sigh of relief at the priest’s affirmations, and he likewise heard one from Malute, who visibly relaxed as the priest went on.
“Now, what does all that have to do with poison?” the priest asked, arching an eyebrow at them.
“In our limited encounters with them outside of combat—when we had a moment to observe where we were not fighting for our very lives, that is—it became readily apparent that they had innate resistances to many things. Fire, acid…” he met the priest’s eyes as he uttered the last word, emphasizing it heavily, “Poison.”
“They also seemed to heal faster than us humans—or to at least be able to tolerate wounds better than us,” Rabberick felt compelled to add, regretting it instantly as suspicion clouded Herocas’ face.
“How would you have learned such things about them?”
Rabberick shared another look with Malute, and decided the magus’ method of half-truths was perhaps the better route here. They had just calmed the peaceable man, after all. There was no need to make him doubt Alfred, or the two of them, even more. Not yet, at any rate.
“Prisoners,” he said simply, hedging his bets that the priest would not question further.
“Hmm…” the priest compressed his lips into a thin line, clearly reading more into the answer than the commander had hoped. He shook his head, then regarded Alfred, who still lay motionless on the bed,
“Both of those traits could be why the King has not yet succumbed to the poison, if it is indeed as potent as you say,” Malute offered.
“It is, I assure you. I have withheld nothing from you.”
Rabberick flinched at the thinly veiled jab, but accepted it. Beside him, Malute bristled, but calmed himself as well. They had, after all, just told the man dire secrets that had been held from him for decades by people he considered some of his closest acquaintances, if not friends. Rabberick would accept the priest’s anger. He had earned that much, at least.
“I spoke true when I told you that there are no records of any surviving a dose of hazca razith without the antivenin,” the priest continued when neither Rabberick nor Malute tried to speak, seeming satisfied with their silence.
“But there has never been anyone such as Alfred infected with it,” Rabberick pointed out.
“Indeed,” Herocas agreed, but sounded less than thrilled with that point, “But that could work against us as well.”
“What do you mean? The gal’roth—”
“Did you not just spend the last quarter bell convincing me that he is not one of those monsters?” the priest demanded, eyes flashing as he cut the commander off.
The commander and magus both eyed the priest, shocked by the normally cool and collected man’s outburst. Understandable, giving the circumstances, but nevertheless unnerving to behold. The priest pulled out his holy symbol once more, visibly calming and collecting himself as he slowly inhaled and exhaled again.
“He is not one of them, I am convinced of that much,” the High Priest said at length, his voice low and steady once more as he placed the amulet back within his robes once more, “And so, in spite of his appearance and other… qualities… that you have listed, we can not be certain that these resistances are among them. If the gal’roth had such resilience to these things as you claim.”
“We saw it,” Rabberick stated firmly.
“You thought you saw it,” Herocas shot back, “You said yourselves that there was little time spent outside of battle with them. Can you be certain of your belief in this?”
“There was hardly time to run tests or experiments,” Malute said dryly, clearly not pleased with the way this conversation was headed.
“Those bastards would always attack us as soon as they saw us,” Rabberick added, shaking his head.
“So you are just guessing then,” Herocas crossed his arms as he considered the King.
“I would prefer to call it an educated guess,” Malute corrected.
“Based on what evidence?”
“Do you really want to know?” the mage replied, face grim.
The priest met his gaze for a long moment, then sighed and shook his head, “No, I suppose I don’t, at that. I have learned far too much of how the war ended for my liking… Still, if the creatures did have resistance to poison, and your guess about what happened to Alfred is accurate, then that could go a long way to explaining how he is still with us.”
The three stood in silence for several long moments, each lost in their own thoughts once more as the hearths crackled around them. Outside, from somewhere far in the distance, a bell tolled the changing of the hour, it’s ringing muted by the thick walls separating those in the infirmary from the world outside.
Rabberick straightened suddenly as the tolling ended, then slumped again, shaking the thought away.
“What is it?” Herocas asked, noticing the commander’s movement.
“Couldn’t you just… heal him?” the commander asked rather sheepishly, knowing the answer before it was given. Had it been that simple, Herocas and his clerics would have done just that, after all.
Sure enough, the priest and mage both turned incredulous looks at him.
“I’ve seen it done on the battlefield hundreds of times,” he felt the need to explain in the face of their disbelieving stares, “And people come to your temple for healing all the time. Not just physical wounds, either, but illnesses as well!”
“This is… different,” Herocas said, pausing to search for the right words.
“How?” Rabberick asked as the priest trailed off, truly not sure how there was any difference at all. And, he figured, he may as well get an explanation since they had made him ask in the first place, “It is an injury like no other!”
“No, it’s not.”
The answering voice was not Herocas’, but instead that of Malute, who turned to face Rabberick fully as he explained.
“In healing, a priest transfers some of their own energy, their own vita, into the patient, accelerating their bodies natural healing process, which is why both the cleric and the patient need to eat shortly after, to replenish their energy. But that method only works with physical wounds and diseases that the body would eventually overcome on its own, so far as I know,” the mage glanced at Herocas, who nodded in confirmation of Malute’s explanation.
“Just so. I could heal the King’s wound, yes, but…”
“The poison,” Malute was nodding as the priest trailed off, his narrow face grim, “it would remain within him.”
“Yes,” Herocas confirmed, expression resigned as he eyed the King sadly, “It would keep causing damage within him, even were the wound to be healed,” he stated, lifting his grey eyes to meet Rabberick’s gaze, “So long as the poison is within him, we can heal him endlessly, but the poison would keep attacking him from inside. It would be an endless cycle.”
“But he would not die?” Rabberick asked, excited.
It was Herocas’ turn to share a look with Malute at the intensity of the commander’s question.
“Well, no, but—” the priest started to reply, only to be cut off by Rabberick, “Then do it!”
“What?” both priest and mage asked in unison.
“Do it. Keep healing him. Keep Alfred alive,” the commander demanded.
Herocas and Malute exchanged blank looks, clearly not comprehending what the commander had in mind.
“To what end?” Malute asked quietly after a moment of silence, earning him an incredulous look from Rabberick.
“To save the King!” he replied emphatically.
“But he would remain in the same state he is in now,” Herocas stated, his voice as soft as Malute’s had been.
“But he would be alive!” Rabberick insisted. How could they not see it?
“But otherwise unchanged, Commander,” Herocas replied in the same defeated tone. He put up a hand to forestall Rabberick’s forthcoming protest, “My desire to save Alfred is no less than your own, my friend. But even were all of my order to expel all their energy into healing him, there would be no change in him. Indeed, just to keep him breathing will require no small effort on our part. There will be no guarantee that he will ever awaken!”
“But you could keep him alive, for a time,” the commander pressed, not willing to give ground.
“I have said as much,” the exasperated priest replied, looking to Malute for help, “But it is likely that he still would not wake. We would only be prolonging the inevitable.”
“But it would give us time, Herocas.”
Malute gave him a sidelong look at that response, his dark eyes considering.
“Time?” Herocas echoed, clearly at a loss, “Time for what?”
“Time enough, perhaps, to acquire the antivenin,” Malute answered for him, understanding dawning in his eyes as he gave the commander an approving look; Rabberick simply nodded.
“Or to find another cure,” Rabberick hesitated, then reluctantly added, “Or, at the very least, to sustain him until his children return.”
The commander and the mage both turned their regard to the priest, who still wore an uncertain frown, his attention fixed on the King’s pale visage. After several moments of quiet contemplation, the priest slowly nodded.
“It could work,” he said at length, though he sounded less than confident, “But how long we could manage it, I cannot say for certain.”
“It still gives us a chance to save him,” Rabberick was quick to reply, not wanting this chance to slip away.
Herocas was silent again, then nodded, “Very well.”
“Thank you,” Rabberick said, sincerely grateful for this chance. There was no doubt that the odds were stacked against them, but he knew he would never forgive himself if they did not try,
He had a feeling that his companions felt the same way.
And if they failed?
Well, at least Rolan, Elenor, and Steffan would have a chance to say their farewells to their father before he passed. Bittersweet, that, but it was better than him passing away while they were off in Aldar, that was for certain.
“The Conclave may have knowledge that your order does not,” Malute said slowly, sorting through the options before them, now that they had time to plan their actions.
“They very well could indeed,” Herocas nodded, “We had not time to reach out to them overnight.”
“I shall reach out to them at once, then,” Malute stated, “The sooner we learn anything that may help, the better.”
“Agreed. There may yet be reason to hope,” the exhausted priest gave Rabberick a small, grateful smile. It slipped away quickly, however, unable to last as he again glanced towards his patient. He straightened his shoulders, and met the eyes of his companions once more, “My order and I shall do all that we can to keep him with us.”
“We never doubted that,” Rabberick assured him truthfully.
Herocas bowed slightly, acknowledging the compliment before leaning over the King once more.
“Hazca razith, you said?” Malute asked, wanting to make sure he had the name of the poison right before he departed. The conversation had clearly run its course, and he was eager to be on his way, now that there was something to be done.
The priest peered up at the mage for a moment, nodding before returning to his work.
“I shall see what I can learn at the Spire, then,” Malute turned to take his leave.
“I shall pray that you are successful.”
Malute started at the overtly pious response, then, surprising himself, replied, “That… would be appreciated,” and without another word, turned and began walking back across the infirmary.
Herocas lifted his head, shock writ plain across his features at the magi’s congenial response. Never had Malute accepted a prayer in his name, so far as he knew. Rabberick and the priest shared a look, and watched as the mage lifted the locking bar, placing it aside.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Rabberick looked to the priest, “You will keep us informed of the King’s condition?”
“Of course.”
Rabberick nodded, having fully expected the simple response to his query as Herocas resumed attending to the King. Though he still looked weary, a new sense of vigor seemed to have filled him, and he moved with renewed purpose.
It was amazing what the smallest amount of hope could do.
He turned as the infirmary door thudded shut behind Malute and began passing the rows of empty beds as he, too, made to take his leave. He needed to talk to the mage.
As he pushed one of the doors open, he glanced back to see Herocas bent over the King, inspecting the wound closer. Guilt flooded him as the priest raised a hand in farewell as he noticed the commander looking his way. Rabberick returned the gesture, quickly turning away so the priest did not see the guilt writ upon his face.
He stepped out into the cool air of the hallway, suppressing a shudder as he left the warmth behind, he glanced both ways, catching sight of Malute just as the mage rounded the corner to the temple foyer, and hurried after him through the empty hallway. The mage had made it out of the temple and had descended the wide staircase to the courtyard below by the time the commander caught up to him.
“Malute!” he gasped as his foot hit the cobblestone of the courtyard, “A word, if you please.”
The mage spun to face him as the commander closed the last few steps to him, arching a thin eyebrow up at him. Rabberick glanced around to ensure that no one was near enough to overhear them, but he saw that he need not have bothered. As when he had arrived, following Valencia to the meeting, the normally bustling courtyard was empty.
Though he was satisfied they were alone, he nonetheless leaned close to the mage as he spoke, “You did not tell him the entire truth.”
“No, I did not.”
“Why?”
“It seemed unnecessary to burden him further,” Malute answered honestly, and once again Rabberick was taken aback by the mage.
Since when did the magus care about overburdening people? That had certainly never held him back in the past.
“He should know the full risks, should the King die,” Rabberick argued.
“Alfred will not die,” Malute said confidently, “Herocas will not let him.”
“You can’t know that!”
“Can’t I?” Malute’s thin lips curled in a knowing grin as he added, “Have some faith, Commander.”
With that, he turned and continued on his way, staff tapping loudly on the stone ground.
This time, Rabberick did not follow, the magus’ last words echoing in his skull.
Have faith?
He did not know that he could, not in any god or goddess.
But in Alfred?
He could have faith in him, in his will to survive.
Yes, he decided, he could have faith in that.
For the alternative was too horrible to consider. More was at stake than the treaty with Eno’Kalia, after all.
Much more.
Rabberick knew, in no uncertain terms, one simple truth.
If Alfred DeCarren died, Cedirc would burn.
It was as simple as that.
* * *
He is not one of those monsters!
Rabberick’s impassioned defense of him flooded the mind of Alfred DeCarren with gratitude and no small amount of guilt.
Though he could not move, held in place by the insidious poison and his bodies own weakness as it fought that venomous intruder, the King had heard every word spoken by his three friends as they had discussed his fate, trying to distinguish what was actually being said from the other, crueler voices of his dreams.
The anguish in Herocas’ voice as he came to terms with what he had been told about the King tore at the semi-conscious sovereign’s heartstrings. If Herocas succeeded in saving his life, he knew that he would owe the priest more than an apology.
He did not begrudge Malute and Rabberick for breaking their oath to him—quite the opposite!
He was grateful the prideful mage had seen the need to impart to Herocas as much as they had about what had happened to him. Truth be told, he would have preferred that the full tale was told, but there was no helping that. He could only regret that he had not told Herocas himself.
Try as he might, he could not make a sound.
He could not even open his eyes.
He had tried many, many times throughout that long night, whenever he had grasped lucidity for a moment.
He resolved to tell Herocas the full story of what had happened that day in Faldûr Istan, far off in the northeastern reaches of Shetna Forest. The priest should have heard the story long ago, and Alfred would fix that mistake as soon as he was able.
Assuming he survived.
He prayed Herocas would be successful, and for more than selfish reasons. Of course, he wanted to live. But more than that, he wanted Cedirc to survive.
Distant growling echoed around his skull, breaking through his mental defences once again and pulling him from his rumination.
He had been lost in thought ever since the conversation around him had ended, trying to find some way to send a sign, any sign, to his most trusted advisers and friends.
He could still hear Herocas working above him, praying to Aegoth for help and healing, and could feel the vita the priest channeled into him.
How he yearned to join in those prayers!
The growls sounded again, seeming closer.
No, he realized with growing dread, not closer. Just louder, as if more voices have joined in.
The silence in his mind never lasted.
He had learned that quickly enough over the previous night. Whenever conversation happened around him, he was able to cast aside the mental intrusions.
But as soon as he was left in silence…
As if in a dream, he thought he could see dozens of golden eyes staring at him from the darkness around them. He imagined he could hear their breathing, could smell their fetid breath.
But that was impossible.
He was in the temple infirmary, was he not?
The creatures could not be around him. It was all in his head. They were as trapped in here as he was, as they had ever been since that disastrous day almost twenty-seven years ago.
So long as he lived, they would remain trapped.
He had to believe that.
A guttural roar filled his head, and was answered by many others.
Dozens of others.
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Unable to escape this waking nightmare, trapped within his own mind, Alfred DeCarren screamed in silent denial as the bestial howls continued without cease.
The helpless King’s torment was endless.