Paol worked hard not to grimace as he led a lesser merchant prince—a moderately important government functionary who technically deserved his respect—to wait in the high priest’s office in the temple of Vaclar. High Priest Aethelbert was dead, of course, but the merchant would meet with whichever high ranking priest was currently winning the power struggle that had broken out before the man’s body cooled.
Paol didn’t care very much. The temples, like all bureaucratic institutions, were constantly plagued with internal power struggles and politicking. The prince here was most likely coming to support one candidate or another in hopes of gaining an ally in his own power struggles in the city’s administration. It was no accident that the bank and most of the city’s administrative institutions were headquartered in the same district as the temples.
Many answered the call to join the Temple of Justice in order to pursue their patron’s will honestly. It’s just that reaching a position of power—one that would actually allow them to arbitrate disputes and manifest Vaclar’s justice in the world—wasn’t strictly possible without playing the game.
Paol didn’t like games. Paol liked clarity, order, and justice. So, naturally, he had been relegated to sweeping floors, blessing lighting crystals, and escorting visitors who made a mockery of justice, of Vaclar, through the god’s own halls. What else could he do?
He deposited the man in the high priest’s office with an assurance that he would be seen soon, and made his way back toward the sanctuary. Something would be happening today, he knew. There was a commotion there earlier, and the light atop the temple had gone out. Now, there were rumors that the Temple of Vaclar had a new paladin. Paol wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. Would he be a politician? A judge?
The last paladin of Vaclar had been raised during the reign of the Oleascan empire in Edis Yiris. He had conducted an inquisition to root out corruption in the city and then moved on to spread Vaclar’s justice throughout the region—with great initial success. Unfortunately, he was assassinated just a few years later, leading to a brutal civil war in what was today the Confederation of Free Cities. The empire still hadn’t recovered to this day.
For the first time in years, Paol felt hope stirring in his chest.
A roar went up outside and Paol pushed against the tide of gawkers to get further into the sanctuary. Most were rushing toward the street, but he knew that the best place to be was near the altar.
He didn’t know exactly what all the noise coming from the lower district had been about earlier, and every rumor that was circulating around the city was more outlandish than the last. Some muttered about an invasion of ghouls, while others claimed that there had been an attack by Rhenish infiltrators. Still others said that the Old Gods were rising from the Deep Paths to challenge the gods themselves.
The masses outside were trying to get a glimpse of the hero who had saved them from whichever threat it might have been. Many others had come to the same conclusion as him and were crowding the building now, but he managed to find a good spot with a clear view of both the altar and the entrance. Once there, he didn’t have to wait long.
With no small amount of commotion and noise, soldiers pushed through the crowds and cleared the doors. Moments later, the paladin entered, followed by robed priests of Vaclar and some from several other orders. He was tall, broad-shouldered and held himself with a bearing that gave him a regal air, despite his ragged uniform. Light radiated softly from his skin and his eyes glowed with fervor, both metaphorically and literally.
He walked toward the altar, limping slightly on one leg. In his hands he carried a hideous, writhing mass of flesh. Uneven tufts of hair grew from one end, and Paol saw a single eye blink open as he passed, staring directly at him.
It was the face of evil itself. He shuddered.
Not sparing a glance for the crowd, the paladin advanced toward the altar. Frowning grimly, he placed the mass on top of the altar and turned around to face the assembly.
“Today, a lich and its pet demons tried to attack us—to make a mockery of the good people of Duskhaven, and of the gods themselves!” He leaned forward, eyes alight. “And we will pursue them into the depths themselves for their insolence. We will root out these demons and destroy them before they can recover to launch another attack against us!”
Paol sighed, disappointed. The undead were a perennial problem—one that the people of Duskhaven were all too aware of, since increasing numbers of ghouls had begun to appear near the Rhenish border. Still, they were manageable so far as he knew. Ghouls occasionally raided villages, but they had never seriously threatened a city. This was a political stunt, building up support against a common enemy.
But the paladin wasn’t finished.
“Before we can see to the world below, though, we need to look to ourselves, here at home. This attack, this lich here, is just a symptom of the real threat that plagues us. The real problem—what made this attack possible, was the corruption and evil that has wormed its way into the very heart of our country.”
Paol perked up, breath catching. What was this?
“For too long, we’ve sent the walking dead below, beat back ghoul incursions, and punished the occasional trespassers, as if that were a real solution.” The man looked around, meeting the eyes of the crowd. “No! All the while, our own politicians, our academics, military officials and even some of our priests have consorted with forces of the underworld to bolster their own power, to satisfy their curiosity, and to gain an advantage against our enemies. At the same time, others sought to influence the temples,” the paladin’s eyes flashed with light in righteous anger, “to pervert the servants of the gods themselves. They spit in the face of the gods and their directives. And who pays the price?”
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He looked around, as if looking for an answer from the crowd. Finally, he raised his hands, gesturing all around. “All of us do! But justice comes for all the gods’ enemies.”
He pointed at the fleshy mass on the altar. It disappeared in a flash of blinding light, emanating a high pitched squeal of pain, followed by sizzling hiss. A hideous smell and more than a little smoke spread through the temple. Moments later, nothing remained but a large, milky-white crystal hovering over the altar, suspended in a beam of purifying light.
Paol’s heart leapt. It was really happening. The merchants, the corrupt priests, the city officials and heretics of all stripes. All of them would finally be made to answer for their crimes against the gods. And his faith, he knew, would be rewarded.
–---------
Idrin was assigned to the bloomery behind the village smithy, where she processed iron ore to produce ingots for the smiths along with a team of other workers. The smithy, she knew, was producing mostly nails—ostensibly to improve their fortifications. Other revenants were cutting and processing lumber and mining stone from the cavern wall.
Hasan was stalling, she knew. He didn’t really expect the lich to succeed in his attack on Duskhaven once it became clear that the pinkies would be forewarned. That didn’t mean, however, that the lich wouldn’t survive. If he made it back, they needed to be able to show that they’d followed his directives.
But, if he didn’t, everything they were working on could be repurposed to benefit the village in more practical ways—building more housing, storage, and workspace, or trading with other villages. Not all caverns had accessible iron or usable lumber, and gathering it was dangerous, even if you were a trained fighter. Ghouls were fearless and more cunning than any rabid monster really had a right to be, and they rarely traveled alone. At least they weren’t terribly dangerous on their own.
Unlike vampires, werecreatures, or liches.
Hot rage suddenly boiled inside her, and fire shot from the furnace’s vent. Her team had been sent out there, as good as fodder, and she here in this stupid village, making iron on Hasan’s say so.
She understood why he had let them join the soldiers’ assault force—Lonnie was one of theirs, and Charlie was uniquely well-suited to the task of working with the soldiers and getting the captives free. Letting Em go with him was unnecessary, though at least it meant he had some backup. She had incredible potential as a wind elementalist, but it only mattered if she survived long enough to realize it.
What really chafed was that Hasan forced Reshid to go with the lich, practically throwing him to the wolves on the lich’s say so. The fledgling healer was a hopelessly inept fighter, and shouldn’t have been put anywhere near a battle, never mind sent off with an enemy force into a hostile city. His healing abilities were unique—many of the surviving revenants owed their lives to him. Their earlier confrontation with the lich gave her some hope that he would survive—something had changed there. She didn’t know how he did it, but he’d used his abilities more like a normal revenant at full power, healing first himself and then dozens of other people without wearing out. But who knew what the guardians might be able to do to him?
It was the wrong call on Hasan’s part. He was a conservative leader, wary of risking the lich’s wrath. This was the wrong time for that kind of leadership, she was sure.
The stone elementalist wasn’t a coward, but he he’d only been willing to risk a confrontation with the lich in the first place because of how much they had already invested into their relationship with Merchant Prince Frederik and Duskhaven, and because Frederik’s soldiers had taken on most of the risk by attacking the lich’s camp directly.
Idrin understood why Hasan had acted as he had, but she was the one whose team was left out there facing who knows what. Where were they right now? Had they already become collateral damage in someone else’s conflict? Would any of them make it back?
She felt it when the lich died. She was gathering her essence, readying to fire the furnace again when it happened. A burning pain in her neck as the essence that the lich had deposited there lost cohesion. It was uncomfortable and her own power fought it as it was released into her body. It spread out, weakened, and then disappeared.
Idrin looked around. She needed to know if it was true—if everyone’s markers had dissolved in the same way. No one else working with her at the bloomery had been there.
Then, she heard it. Shouts went up inside the smithy and in the street. Seconds later, the shouts transformed into cheers.
Frederik and his guardians had come through after all. The lich was dead.
–---------
“I’m sorry, blessed one, but you are not injured, nor are you infected with any sickness or suffering from any poison.” Yarem said with an infuriatingly apologetic smile on his face. The healer, who he’d summoned from the Temple of Lynhild, pulled his hand back, leaving the angry red swelling above Geoffrey’s ankle unchanged. The priest probably hadn't noticed, but Geoffrey could see it for what it was - a hand print.
“I don’t care what it is, just fix it!” Geoffrey suppressed the urge to strangle the man. He would need to ensure that the other orders had competent, results-oriented training in the coming months. There was so much they needed to do to set their people, and the world, back on course.
The young man coughed in embarrassment and scratched at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sir. Uh… Blessed One. I’m afraid this isn’t something that can simply be healed. Lynhild’s blessings save us from all manner of harm—plague, injury and toxins of all kinds. But she does not protect us from this. Your body has turned against itself, and your body and soul are inviolate before the goddess.”
Geoffrey nearly spit blood. “Get out! Out! Get lost and send me a competent healer!”.
As the door fell shut, he leaned back in his chair, letting out a sigh. There was so much work to do.
End of Arc 1