Deep within its lair, the Ravener was screaming.
Loose rock broke apart, rattling, shaking, raining from the ceiling. Its guardians yelped in fear, fleeing from what they feared was its rage.
Yet, rage was not what gripped their leader.
This time, it was not voicing its rage…this time it screamed in confusion, frustration, and horror. Its maker had etched hundreds of protocols into the midnight-black sphere. Every rule was a command and protocol laid down to instruct the black orb with the very framework and foundation of its mind.
All decisions, its entire reason for being were to be dictated by them, it was meant to follow them precisely as different situations arose.
Simple procedures, designed to guide it in every cycle of every millennia, past, present or future, were laid out for it to react with, according to specific events determined in advance by Uldar.
Despite the parameters set by the protocols, the ability to reason was still a part of the construct’s makeup. It had been granted this resource by its maker. How it would execute those protocols was its own decision to make. Most of its daily activities centred on wreaking havoc throughout Thameland and consistently testing the Heroes, while keeping the people in a constant state of fear. It had its purpose and its protocols, and all that it needed to do was execute them in the appropriate way, reacting to given situations.
The Ravener was not meant to question protocols, it was meant to execute them.
Today, that changed.
Today, it had a question.
Deep within the construct was a protocol so ancient—activated just once before—that the Ravener paused at the idea of using it. But the event that had occurred was supposed to be impossible, and its response would have to be so drastic, that it was left questioning its creator’s intent.
The Ravener would have to disrupt the current cycle in a way that even a hundred usurpers could not.
Was the action that it was supposed to take what its creator truly intended?
It seemed unlikely, even irrational.
So, the Ravener wondered.
It knew that the only way for a General to be among the Heroes would be if Uldar had changed his plan. It had no desire to disrupt its maker’s plans.
And so—for the first time in millennia—the Ravener chose not to obey its protocol. It could not perform the required actions unthinkingly and certainly, not yet.
Not without confirmation that those actions were the creator’s true will.
It understood that once it took the action dictated by this specific event…
…there was no turning back.
Things would be as they were millennia ago and the Ravener was not sure if—this time—the Thameish people would recover. Not without the maker’s help.
Would he help them this time?
For so many cycles, Uldar had been silent.
The Ravener had not been impacted by this.
It was content to carry on; it had its in-depth instructions, its purpose and its protocols; all it had to do was follow them. Further input from its creator was not needed, and the construct contentedly followed its role as terrorizer and destroyer, fulfilling its purpose.
It would be better to seek confirmation before acting.
Only then would it act.
As it had done over the millennia, on the rare times that the Ravener needed consultation with its maker, it reached out across its link to Uldar’s mind.
It asked the god a simple question: ‘Are you sure this is what you wish for me to do?’
Silence.
Silence hung heavy, as it had for thousands of years, the god no longer replied.
No matter.
There were other ways.
It knew its creator had retreated to his sanctum, and it also knew where to access that sanctum from Thameland. Yet, it could not go there, it could not leave its lair unbidden: this would be a task well-suited to the First Apostle.
The human did not have all of the information, but he would know enough to be able to speak to Uldar, and have him reach out to answer the question. Sending a Ravener-spawn to act as a messenger to Uldar’s sanctum would risk giving too much away, if it were noticed by people outside the hidden church. It discounted that idea.
It had grown anxious, something it rarely experienced before this current Fool, and it was reluctant to disturb its creator, but the protocol was too drastic to proceed without confirmation.
It must be certain.
The Ravener reached out for help from the First Apostle of its creator.
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“Do you know what I don't get about you mortals?” the Stalker asked lightly, juggling two red gems. “A misunderstanding of futility. Sometimes you all look at situations that can be resolved and think they’re futile. Other times, you look at situations that are futile and think they can be resolved! It makes no sense!”
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He shifted to juggling the gems one-handed. “I told you that if you just speak, then all of this stops! You get your lung back, you get a kidney back, you get your leg bones, you get your liver back…not to mention these pretty, pretty eyes of yours!” The Stalker grinned at the gems in his hand, his eyes returning to the crumbling form before him.
The collapsing form of Warder, the thief.
What was still intact of the high ranking member of the Guild of the Red Mouse, was trembling. His body resembled a throbbing sack of flesh splayed out on a stony beach, his eyes were no longer in their sockets, his breathing was shallow, almost absent, as he clutched his torso in agony.
All around him were the still forms of his bodyguards.
None bore a single wound on their bodies, but it was obvious that they had long passed from the world. Along the crashing surf, screeching gulls and skittering crabs feasted on their organs. More carcasses floated on the surface of the icy Irtyshenan sea, and—further up the beach—members of the secret church stoically watched their fae ally do his grim work.
The Stalker juggled the gems faster.
Warder shuddered, retching the scant contents of his gut, dribbling green bile down his chin and onto frigid rock. There was little left in the thief's stomach but slime and air, it wasn’t the first time he’d vomited since the Stalker had gotten his hands on him.
“Disorienting, ain't it?” the fae said. “You can still see out of your eyes, and here I am juggling them, giving them a view that no mortal was ever meant to see. Your sight must be bouncing around all over the place, spinning about, shooting off in two different directions. Must be difficult. But, talking will end all your discomfort! It’ll bring an end to your problems. It's been days, hasn’t it? Why do you keep holding out?”
“I…” Warder choked out with the breath from his one lung.
“Mmm?” the Stalker leaned forward. “What was that?”
“I told you…everything…” the ruined man choked. “We’re looking for our founder’s sanctum. Someone came…that has her power…we gave him the…locations where it should be…so he could find it. We were gonna kill him when he did and take…the treasures inside…”
The Stalker rolled his eyes. “Please. You dumb bastard, I learned all that from the first one of you I gutted! You expect me to believe that's all there is to this?” His smiles and laughter faded. “Look, I’m hunting a certain quarry, and you already offended me by looking to interfere with what’s supposed to be my kill. I'm tired of these games.”
“No games…” Warder gurgled. “Would do anything for pain to stop.”
“And you expect me to believe that?” the Stalker snarled. “When my hounds and I first took you from your bed, you tried putting up some grand fight! And, when that was beaten out of you, it was the silent treatment. You kept up that silent treatment when I took some of your innards, and you didn't even budge when I got your bodyguards and started to pull them apart. You’re one cold bastard.”
He shook his head. “It was only after the first couple of days that you finally started talking…and then all you told me were lies about ‘knowing nothing’. Do you even hear those words? Do you ever really think about their meaning? No one knows nothing, you idiot! Even squalling babes know something, even something so simple as that they need to drink their mother’s milk! Your lies changed quick enough, and you spun all sorts of colourful tales.”
The Stalker reached toward several objects floating beside him. Warder’s organs and bones. He plucked a kidney from the air and began squeezing it. “It was only when I crushed one of them kidneys of yours, that you finally started telling me something close to the truth. It’s funny, but even the toughest of mortals start breaking when I begin doing somepermanent damage. Yet, you still won't tell me the whole story! I tell you, it's futile!”
“I told you…every…” Warder choked.
“You couldn't have,” the Stalker snarled. “If you had, I'd know exactly where this sanctum is, or at least, how to get there. So stop. Being. So stubborn.”
Again, Stalker’s hand squeezed the organ.
Warder whimpered.
Izas shook his head, watching the gruesome torture. “What a waste of time. Our ally knows mortals, less than half as well as he thinks he does. I've witnessed Eldin conduct interrogations and have conducted my own; I know when questioning has crossed a line into common butchery, and I know when a person has been broken and is telling the truth. This ‘Warder’ broke days ago, the Stalker simply cannot accept it. Holy leader, I—”
He looked at Gabrian, then paused. “Holy leader?”
The First Apostle was gazing across the sea, his eyes unfocused, and his expression locked in concentration. He shook himself. “I apologise, Izas, I was occupied.”
“With what, holy leader?” Izas asked. “Have you received some revelation?”
There was a yearning in the Third Apostle’s voice; he was desperate for any word from their god. This last year had been devastating for the holy church. They had lost their home, failed repeatedly to strike down their enemies, and now they were on an endless hunt, far from the holy kingdom they were meant to shepherd.
Any sign that they were on the right path—that they had not forsaken their duties in some way—would have been a grand blessing.
Izas’ disappointment was immeasurable when the First Apostle shook his head. “No revelation,” Gabrian said. “A strange feeling had come over me…as though there were thoughts just at the edge of my consciousness, demanding attention. I thought perhaps Uldar or a servant of his was trying to communicate with me…but nothing followed.”
“Then we will just have to be patient,” Izas said.
“I sense patience growing thin within you, old friend,” Gabrian said. “You are troubled.”
Izas nodded toward the gruesome scene taking place further along the beach. “I am not one to shy away from blood or suffering, as long as it is in Uldar’s name, but this has grown senseless. We are no closer to destroying one of Uldar’s great enemies than we were months ago…and yet for a time, I thought we had him. We were tightening the noose around his neck, and he just disappeared. I fear that we will have to return to Thameland with more failure clinging to us. I do not like the feeling of failing our god, holy leader.”
“Patience,” Gabrian advised. “The duties of our order have stretched for thousands of years, and when it comes to such enduring duties, one only fails when one either gives up, loses faith, or dies. We have done none of these. We have not failed our god yet.”
“Our enemy seems to have some infernal ability to adapt, and strengthen himself,” Izas said. “While we wait here, watching our ally engage in senseless butchery, he could be preparing for us even now.”
“Yet, we are on the right path.” He looked back over his shoulder to the island behind him. It was far from where the Fool had searched for the missing sanctum. Deep within a cave a good distance from the beach, was a gateway left by Kelda of Clan McCallum and also used by the Guild of the Red Mouse. Warder had led them there, and the hidden church had taken the portal for their own. “Even now, our priests work to understand how the gate works, even as we defend it from the thieves' Guild. With time, when we are able to fully understand it, it will lead us to the Fool; I believe Uldar has seen fit to guide us to this place. With the right miracle, we should find a way to this sanctum.”
“I am sure we will,” Izas said. “I cannot help but feel that the situation is growing more dire.”
“It is, but we shall rise to meet it,” Gabrian said. “Do not worry for Thameland. Our realm is old and strong, with Uldar’s eye watching it, it will keep.”
Falling back into Silence, the two holy men watched the Stalker do his preferred work.
Behind them, their priests worked to unlock the secrets of Kelda's portal.
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The Ravener pulled away from the First Apostle’s mind.
He was at too great a distance—somewhere to the east—from Thameland for Uldar’s construct to reach him.
So it would have to send a messenger.
A Ravener-spawn would find the First Apostle by travelling over the roads provided by the Ravener’s newest ally.