The Path

21st Day of Autumn

767 Karloman’s Peace

Autumnal scents wafted from the censers and lingered heavily in the hallowed halls of Werth’s main temple, enveloping Ekkehard as he entered.

The room's calm seemed at odds with the distant cacophony of anarchy held back by its sturdy walls. This temple had been a sanctuary to him in times of disorientation, welcoming him and offering guidance like the worst of predators, bidding the vulnerable to come. Yet today, Ekkehard needed no advisor nor any comfort. Today, his visit was one of defiance. He was here to reveal the fallacy of the place, to shine a light on its deceptions, to show it that he was its fool and its pawn no more.

The altar, perched atop its sacred dais, was adorned with the autumnal offerings of the season. Baskets brimming with crisp apples, assorted squashes, and earthy acorns lay beside plates piled with ripe grapes, their skins glistening and moist. Large amphoras filled with wines, rich and dark as twilight, were scattered amidst bowls of assorted nuts and cups overflowing with sage, rosemary, and many other herbs. Encircling this display were marigolds and chrysanthemums blooming in defiant vibrancy. Clusters of white-petaled osmanthus, positioned with deliberate prominence, seemed to capture the waning light. The diligent monks had outdone themselves in preparing the city's sacrifices, their eagerness palpably present in this bountiful display, a vivid contrast to the apathetic whims of their imagined deities.

Ekkehard’s footsteps echoed through the vast hall, each step resonating with dissonance and disturbing the silence as if dispelling an illusion. He reached the end of the aisle and stood before the altar, his gaze sweeping over what once invoked awe but now bred utter contempt within him.

Garish displays of submissive reverence adorned every corner: vases of fine porcelain, as hollow as the supposed virtue of their makers, were placed meticulously around the room. Sculptures—grandiose depictions of false adherence—stood alongside ornaments of vulgar ostentation and artworks that reeked of stolen imagination. This room, which once made him feel like a small part of something far grander, now suffocated him with the weight of its fraud, its beauty marred by the truth he could now see lurking beneath its fictional mask.

His eyes were drawn to the mural that adorned the wall behind the altar—a dedication to Karloman, Son of Spring, The Twin-Hammer, The Feller of Man’s Foes. The artwork was not a vivid depiction of realism but a subtler, simpler, stylised form beloved by the faith. Simple shapes, with sharp edges and soft shading, portrayed the saviour of mankind in gleaming golden armour, holding a Warhammer in each hand, standing victorious before the defeated masses of demons while the pantheon of gods looked on from above.

Ekkehard sneered, baring his teeth as if daring the image to impose its prevarications on him once more. “And who are you,” Ekkehard asked the painting, “that I must bow so low?”

A shift in the light through the high windows cast the room in shadow. It was as if the infallibility of his truth had scared away the false divinity, leaving behind a dismal reality. A loud and echoing sigh accompanied the change.

Ekkehard turned to the source of the sound. To his left, in the front row of the temple’s pews, sat a hooded man in red—the keeper of this sacred place. Noticing the man, Ekkehard straightened his back and smoothed the ruffles of the donated winter coat he wore. The confrontation to come mattered to him. Though he suspected the battle was already lost, it mattered, nonetheless. Abbot Zhu was his friend, a good man, a wise man. One he wanted to save, though he suspected he could not.

Ekkehard took a deep breath and made his way to sit in the row behind Zhu. A respectful place. He no longer considered Zhu his mentor, having realised how misguided the man was, as was the entirety of the priesthood of Karloman, but he still believed the man deserved respect. Ekkehard did not want to spit in the face of all the man had tried to do for him over the last year.

“Hello, Teacher,” Ekkehard began. Zhu sighed in response, shaking his head and refusing to acknowledge Ekkehard. Ekkehard frowned. “Are you quite well?” he asked. Zhu leaned forward, resting his head in his hands and staring at the stone floor. “If you are ill, could I send for someone?” Still no response. “Perhaps if you tell me what ails you…”

“What do you want, Ekkehard?” Abbot Zhu snapped, rounding on him. Ekkehard jolted back, surprised by the reaction.

“I came to speak with you, Teacher,” Ekkehard explained, “as we have done so many times before. I have always valued your counsel.”

“My counsel,” Zhu scoffed, almost laughing, “and what exactly can I counsel you on, Ekkehard? Hmm.” Zhu looked at Ekkehard with a mix of expectance and derision. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, goading Ekkehard to answer. When no answer came, he continued. “Perhaps I can counsel you on how to run riot through the streets of my city? Or perhaps you need assistance extorting money from the peasantry? Or maybe you want to know the foulest forms of heresy that can be committed so you can cross them off your list of blasphemies? Is that the sort of counsel you are here for, Ekkehard?”

“I…I,” Ekkehard stammered, his jaw trembling a little, shocked by the vehemence of Zhu. The man held such hatred for him all of a sudden. His friend saw him as some vile, disgusting thing. His heart stabbed with icy pain, and his temple throbbed. He tried to shake away the feeling and to understand where this revulsion could have come from. “I am no heretic,” Ekkehard finally muttered.

Zhu tutted, “I have seen the affirmations myself, Ekkehard. You are an apostate and a heretic. You were driven from your own when you spread sedition and sought to poison the minds of others against the Karloman’s heir.”

“Lies,” Ekkehard shot back.

“Of course, you’d say that,” Zhu spat without hesitation. “Every traitor thinks of themselves as the victim. What are you going to try to tell me? Are you the victim of some great conspiracy? The helplessly oppressed? Were you tricked into heresy by some great deceiver? Hmm? What excuse is it, Ekkehard? What excuse do you have that justifies what is happening outside that door?” Zhu pointed to the back of the temple and out at the streets of Werth.

Zhu believed the lies, Ekkehard realised. Of course, he did. He had spent his entire life in the service of the faith. If reports came from another temple affirming Ekkehard as a heretic, what could he do but believe? Yet he was sensible, wise, and intelligent; if Ekkehard could explain everything, he would see and understand. Ekkehard could make him see. Ekkehard could set him free. But how? He wondered.

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Ekkehard looked at the old man. The abbot’s judgmental face, lined with arrogance and superiority, looked back at him from beneath his hood. “I would like to ask you a question, Teacher,” he said in a contemplative variant of his now monotone vernacular. “Can I ask you a question?” Zhu tutted again, shaking his head, but then eyed Ekkehard curiously. He gestured for Ekkehard to continue. “Am I on the righteous path?” Ekkehard asked.

Zhu gawked at Ekkehard, his face marred with dry contempt. “You don’t even care about what you have done, do you?” Zhu said. Ekkehard did not reply; he was waiting for his answer first. “Listen,” Zhu said, putting a hand to his ear to emphasise the demand, “Do you hear that? Does that sound like righteousness to you?”

Ekkehard closed his eyes and strained to hear the riotous sounds beyond. The man had a semblance of a point. There was peace in the morning and now violence in the afternoon. He had done that. Ekkehard had sparked a flame that engulfed the city of Werth. After leaving Vedast’s house to burn, Ekkehard had journeyed into the city's heart, the Administrative Sector. The Marquises and other nobles’ retinues had attempted to stop him. Each time, he unleashed the Red Angel, and they were broken and battered. Nothing could prevent his advance. Many of the city’s downtrodden had come to follow him, all finding their own reasons to join in the sacking of the city centre. The city's wealthy, who had long ignored its citizens' plights, were suddenly made vulnerable. Ekkehard had unearthed the undercurrent of anger within the populace, and now, the apathetic elite was being torn apart. The people rioted, the guards were overrun, and the city was breached. Rivers of blood would flow.

Ekkehard had left the violence after reaching the Marquis’s house. He had not entered himself, having no strong desire to witness the devastation that would be wrought upon it. Instead, he released the Angel upon its inhabitants and came to visit the temple. He had been drawn to this monument of deception to speak again with his old confidant so that he might give the pantheon one final chance to reveal themselves and be held accountable for their omissions. Yet, as he expected, the temple was empty except for the old man.

As he thought about the events unfolding beyond the temple walls, Ekkehard was overcome with a wave of disappointment. The abbot was so judgmental of what he had caused, yet where was the abbot's anger over the events that had led him here? He had not seen the abbot since the day his wife was murdered, and Zhu didn’t offer a single word of comfort. Instead, he chastised Ekkehard for seeking justice and for wanting to balance the scale between him and those who had wronged him. Ekkehard’s face twisted, his upper lip twitching into a grimace. He narrowed his eyes menacingly as he looked back at Zhu.

“Tell me, Zhu,” Ekkehard began, “Do you ever leave the inner walls?”

“What are you talking about?” the abbot replied, a hint of hesitant weariness in his voice.

“The Administration Sector,” Ekkehard explained, “do you ever go beyond it, into the city? The real city, I mean. Do you ever set your eyes upon the world you think you shepherd? Have you seen the ugly vileness of this world? Or do you just hide here, in your house of lies?”

The abbot scoffed. Ekkehard felt the muscles on his face harden and the skin pull tight around his eyes. “Did you ever happen along the road that ran past Vedast’s house?” Ekkehard asked, his expression turning grim.

“If you’re asking me if I set eyes upon that awful display the southern lord put up, I haven’t,” the abbot replied, his words so quick they almost stumbled over one another as if inconvenienced by the question. “From what I have heard, it was disgusting and vulgar, and I condemn it. But I ask you, Ekkehard, what other fate should await the heretic?”

“Heretic!” Ekkehard bellowed, rising to his feet. “My wife was a good woman! You may spout what lies you like about me, but you will not mar her memory with such bullshit!”

“Ekkehard, you walked into this city with an actual servant of Gader’el at your back,” the abbot answered, shaking his head, “what else do you think you are?”

Ekkehard burst out laughing, his anger evaporated. Zhu thought his angel was a demon. The first actual proof that there is something greater than man in the universe, and Zhu’s first thought was to denounce it as evil. The hilarity of it was too much. The divine itself had visited Werth, and a priest was blind to it. It tickled him, deep within his belly, and he could hardly stop his body from convulsing with each throaty chortle.

Suddenly, he realised there was no offence to be taken. Why be offended by the ignorant? And the abbot was ignorant. Ekkehard shook his head at the old man’s juvenile attempt to comprehend the Angel. At that moment, any admiration or reverence Ekkehard had for the man evaporated. He saw the truth of the old fool. Just a lost child, begging the darkness to spare him. Ekkehard didn’t need him. Ekkehard didn’t need anyone. He had seen into the minds of the gods, and he understood them better than any mortal ever had. His fingers strummed the spine of the Book of Heaven as he relished in the knowledge that he alone possessed.

“You think this is funny?” Abbot Zhu questioned, his voice rising as it filled with chastisement. “You dare to laugh at the gods in their own house. You are a heretic, one of the malevolent; you will be punished.”

“Thank you, Teacher,” Ekkehard said, composing himself as his laughter abated. He took in a deep breath and smiled at Zhu. “Thank you,” he repeated. “You have answered my question as best you can, and I have found your wisdom wanting. There is nothing for me to learn from you anymore, but I am grateful to you for showing me that. I bid you farewell, and please believe me when I say I hope you survive the coming days.” Ekkehard made to leave the temple.

“Don’t walk away from me, boy!” Zhu shouted as he got up and followed Ekkehard down the aisle. “You want to know if you’re on the right path?” he cried, but Ekkehard no longer needed to know the Abbot’s answer. “Well, you’re not,” Zhu screamed, his voice hoarse as he scrambled after Ekkehard. “You’re lost. A lost and stupid child screaming at the world because you couldn’t find your way.” Ekkehard ignored the insults. What did it matter to him what this fool thought? “No one has ever been further from their path than you!” the abbot shouted as he caught up to Ekkehard and gripped him by the shoulder, spinning him around.

The dagger found its way into the abbot almost without Ekkehard's notice. Warm blood ran over Ekkehard’s hand. He looked down at the weapon protruding from the old man’s chest. He blinked, confused. He didn’t recall drawing the weapon. He looked up at the old man, Abbot Zhu’s horrified eyes staring back at him, mouth agape, the shock still setting in. His old lungs struggled as he gasped for air. He was going to die. The dagger had gone straight through his ribs and into his heart. Ekkehard had murdered the man.

Before his thoughts could dwell on that, they whirled; new thoughts, ones he wasn’t quite sure were his own, entered his mind. He had to die, Ekkehard concluded; he deserved to. After all he had said about Auriana, you couldn’t let him live. It was good that he was going to die. There was no place for him in the new world that Ekkehard was building. It was better that he died now. It was merciful. That is what I am, Ekkehard thought, merciful.

Ekkehard retracted the dagger, and the abbot fell face-first to the stone floor of the temple. He was dead, just as Ekkehard had intended. He looked down at the blood-slick blade and examined it with apathetic curiosity. His other hand still gripped the Book of Heaven, and a soothing affirmation seeped from it and into Ekkehard’s mind. He was right; he had wanted to kill the man. The man was insulting him. His arrogance was too much to ignore. It deserved punishment. Ekkehard had chosen to kill the man; he was certain of that. I did want to kill him, didn’t I?

Ekkehard dropped the dagger, which clanged against the temple's stone floor. The sound echoed like the chiming of bells. He turned again and headed for the temple's exit. He felt odd. His skin crawled as if ill-fitting. It was like he was a stranger to himself. He didn’t know why he felt this way.

Just beyond the large set of double wooden doors leading from the temple, Ekkehard could see the approaching form of his Angel, coming once more to do his bidding. As he admired the being's magnificence, he felt at ease and more himself again.

Ekkehard smiled. He had enjoyed his talk with the abbot, but he wouldn’t need to see the man again. However, he hoped Zhu would fare well and that he would survive the city's cleansing. Maybe when all that was to come was done, Ekkehard and Zhu could sit and consider the majesty of the new world he would build. As he reached to push one of the doors wider and stepped out into the city, Ekkehard noted that the sleeve of his coat was stained with blood. Where had that come from? He wondered. He scrunched his face in confusion, realising he couldn’t quite remember.