INTERLUDE I // TAKE A LONG, HARD LOOK

At the very center of the Great City there lies a truly enormous spire of bleached bone; one that dwarfs its seven neighboring fellows with ease. It is a narrow and precise sort of structure, a delicate needle piercing through clouds, and it is at the very peak of this grand monument that the men of the Triumvirate meet to discuss the fates of several thousand citizens and warriors below.

The spire's base, however, is a broad and flat-ended structure - a ziggurat of sorts, connected to the dusty streets below by a looming and seemingly-infinite staircase. It is atop these stairs that Tekarn now marches in stony silence, hands clasped behind his back and sword fastened firmly to his belt. As he ascends higher and higher, the wind begins to pick up in heat and intensity both, yet the First Eltok is undeterred. His legs begin to ache. The soles of his feet burn. Still he does not care. He is a Winnower, and pain is little more than a daily exercise.

Finally, he comes to the end of that torturous ascent and finds himself face to face with creatures of nightmare, made flesh. They are the Immortals, servants of High Celebrant Kor - himself one third of the ruling Triumvirate. And they are gargantuan, vaguely human-shaped hulks who in truth appear as little more than taut skin stretched over vessels of pure muscle and power. Their eyes are wide and mindless, and their teeth are permanently grit together - in fact, they are accompanied at all times by the low sound of those teeth grinding incessantly against one another.

These men and women have lived in a diet of nothing but the Wa'tek for their entire lives. It is said that they of all mortals are closest to the Great Worm.

Tekarn gives the abominations a look of barely restrained disgust before continuing forwards. The Immortals make no move to impede him.

Tekarn is descending (and ascending) now into the Sygoshasas, the central temple within which Kor's celebrants give worship to Him; the Worm, the Lifegiver, the Great Anathema. It is a shadowy place illuminated faintly by countless pale candles, and those shadows conceal a great deal indeed. Tekarn gets only brief glimpses of half-naked supplicants, their bodies studded and piercing with all manner of worm-bone and their skin ritualistically scarred in strange, winding patterns. Some are chanting in the Old Tongue. Some are silent in prostration. The faint smell of incense lines the air. A man with a bloodied chest and a mask of spikes and nonsensical geometry turns to Tekarn with some form of parchment tome in his hand; Tekarn shoots the man a look of pure, unadulterated murder and the celebrant quickly returns to his wordless prostration. And thus the First Eltok continues onwards.

Tekarn has been here only three times in his life, but he knows the way well enough.

Finally, he arrives at the central chamber - a vast open expanse wherein one thousand candles burn and blood-painted sigils decorate pillars of spiraling bone. A great, dark curtain hangs over the back wall, obscuring it from view, and at a pulpit to the far right stands none other than the High Celebrant himself.

In theory, the three members of the Triumvirate are equals in all things. In practice, however, it is only Kor to whom The Master speaks, and it is only from Kor that any other may receive the Master's words. The High Celebrant descends from his lectern, now, spreading his hands wide and giving Tekarn a warm and inviting smile. His eyes twinkle like char-black diamonds.

"Lord Tekarn," the High Celebrant says. "The Master bids you welcome."

He is a short, unassuming man in his mid-forties - balding, and neither attractive nor unattractive. He bears neither the ritual scarification nor mutilation of his numerous supplicants and acolytes. He is simply an ordinary man in a long, trailing red robe, and by all accounts a rather pleasant man at that.

His is the calm of inevitability, of the python slowly contracting around the neck of its victim. He is as much a predator as any other in this barbarous city and Tekarn is well aware of all of this as he steps forward and kneels in supplication.

"High Celebrant," Tekarn intones, touching two fingers to his forehead. "I am summoned, and thus I appear before you."

He was indeed summoned, a fact that is highly unusual and deeply unsettling. The three branches that makes up the Cult - the Winnowers, Providence, and the Celebrants - rarely if ever overlap, though the Celebrants are recruited in their entirety from the common citizenry of Providence. The Winnowers, on the other hand, maintain a great deal of distance from both, and exist in the present day as a sort of society-within-a-society, one with its own myriad traditions and rituals and customs. The Celebrants have never taken issue nor interfered with this delicate balance, for the Winnowers still serve the Worm in practice through their terrible violence and insatiable, unrelenting hunger for victory and triumph and bloodshed and all those primordial sorts of human desire. For a Celebrant to meet with a Winnower at all is very much out of the ordinary. For the High Celebrant himself to summon the First Eltok? Never mind that there was no warning from Lord Bartok, to whom Kor surely must have delivered his request.

It was clear to Tekarn that there were machinations unfolding far beyond the scope of both his vision and his control, and the prospect was filling a man known for his unshakeable calm with cold, creeping unease. Moments where the First Eltok felt unsteady on his feet were rare indeed; lately, however, it was as though he only ever tread upon shaky ground.

"Indeed," Kor smiled. He never really stopped smiling, in truth. "The Master is well pleased to see the greatest Winnower in our history prostrate himself thus in his sacred chamber. So few of your kind ever venture this far into the Sygoshasas."

"You honor me," Tekarn replied flatly, head still bowed. It was the appropriate response.

"We do not do so lightly," Kor said, and there was something at the edge of his voice that Tekarn couldn't quite identify - but something that provoked within him a small surge of irritation, nevertheless. Here stood a weak, spindly little man, a pathetic creature whom Tekarn could break with his bare hands alone. And yet the Master's words were for this man's ears alone.

Tekarn was prudent and farsighted enough to understand that there were different kinds of strength, different forms of power - but even still, his base Winnower instincts were galled at the concept of servility before such a creature. Tekarn served Bartok, who in turn served the Master. He did not serve Kor.

"Now, then," Kor said, bidding Tekarn to rise, and the First Eltok did so at once. "There is much to discuss. The Master has expressed concern at the situation unfolding within your ranks."

"He is?" Tekarn asked, before he could stop himself. "How much does he know?"

At that, Kor gave a jovial little chuckle.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Everything, Lord Tekarn," he said. His teeth were perfectly white. "The Master knows everything. You would do well to remember that."

"Of course," Tekarn said, nodding his head. This was familiar dogma. "Please, High Celebrant, go on."

"The Master," Kor said, folding bony fingers over his torso, "was saddened to hear of the loss of Lord Kagen, followed so swiftly by the loss of Lord Arha. And my personal sympathies go out to you, Lord Tekarn - it is a terrible thing to lose a child, is it not?"

Sympathy was alien to the Winnowers - but it was utterly anathema to a discipline of the Great Worm. Kor's words were plainly intended as little more than a knife to the gut.

"She was no child of mine," Tekarn said sharply. "She was my student."

"And quite a successful student at that. The Master looked upon her with great favor."

"Yet he did not intervene."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," Tekarn said quickly, glancing away. Damn that contemptible woman! Damn her for losing to him, damn her for getting exiled, and damn her for making him act like such a simple-minded fool! Focus. Focus, focus, focus. Take all your pathetic little emotions and compress them down, down, down until they are nothing but a screaming little pinprick of thought, lost in an ocean of calm control. Close your eyes. Take a breath. Now, open them again. See? You are in control.

"She shed a tremendous amount of blood," Kor was continuing, as though nothing had occurred. "And she was a font of limitless ambition and arrogance both. A fine paragon of the Master's own teachings. It is a shame she succumbed to such base and petty instincts."

Was he talking about Arha's so-called betrayal, or Kelsen and Bartok's machinations to see her exiled? The ambiguity, Tekarn knew, was quite intentional, and he had no intention of taking High Celebrant's bait.

"A shame indeed," was all he offered in reply.

"The Master is curious, then," Kor said. "Is the situation amongst the three Hosts well in hand? Bartok has given me one answer. I wonder now whether you will give me another."

Was he being played against the Grand Lord? Was he being tested? By the Wastes this was all so confusing, and now he couldn't stop thinking about her - damn it all!

"Everything is under control," Tekarn replied, which was true enough to sound like he believed it. "My Shadow, Gekto, tested Eltok Draven last night - and it would seem that the old man has risen to the task. He is a known and respected quantity within his Host, and a man I've fought alongside in the past. He would weep to see war erupt between the Hosts."

"And what of the Second?" Kor asked, tilting his head to the side.

"Kelsen is a child," Tekarn replied dismissively. "He can be guided or forced with little effort. The Second pose no serious threat to our greater stability."

"You're would control the other Eltoks, then?" Kor raised an eyebrow.

"I am a soldier," Tekarn said coldly. "I do what I must. If others cannot see fit to govern properly than I will govern for them."

"Intriguing," Kor mused, stroking his chin. "That sort of thing sounds moreso like the role of the Grand Lord, does it not?"

"I am the Grand Lord's instrument and scion both."

"He suspects you mean to betray him, you know. He believes that you harbor twin grudges, and that you disguise animosity beneath a veil of false stoicism."

"A logical suspicion," Tekarn replied without flinching. "With my every word and deed I prove it to be false."

"Of course. You wouldn't want to end up like your daughter, after all."

"That woman is not my daughter," Tekarn growled, meeting Kor's eye. "I told you once, priest. I will not tell you again."

A deadly silence followed - and then was swiftly punctuated by a merry chuckle from the High Celebrant.

"You are a ferocious creature indeed," Kor grinned, clasping Tekarn on the shoulder. "It's little wonder that The Master favors you so." And with that, before Tekarn could speak, he gestured grandly to the curtain hanging behind him.

"On that note," he said, leaning forward and whispering in Tekarn's ear. "The Master would like to speak with you."

Raw panic shot straight up Tekarn's spine - something he had not felt in years. That tiny little pinprick of emotion simply exploded into a vivid tidal wave of terror and rage and anxiety and sorrow and then thousand other little things because there was only one man alive who was ever permitted a direct audience with the Master. And now that same man was telling him to go behind the curtain.

"That's-I'm-that's not-" Tekarn stuttered, truly and utterly flabbergasted. He didn't stand a chance at composing himself. It wasn't just a product of that building unease, of the impossibility of such a request. There was something else too - a primal sort of fear that was ratcheting up with each and every second and the source of which Tekarn could not possibly identify even if he had been of such a mind to do so. This was the fear of ancient instinct, of the hindbrain. It was the same fear that birds and lizards and even plants felt, that basic and immutable instinct to survive. It was binary and it was simple and it was entirely overpowering.

"Go on," Kor said, and Tekarn could swear the High Celebrant's smile was widening at his discomfort. "He's waiting for you."

"But-"

Tekarn.

Oh, Tekarn.

You troubled, troubled creature.

What a magnificent killer you are.

What a beautiful servant you have been.

You're hanging on by a thread, aren't you?

So strong and so weak all at once.

I like that.

The duality.

The contrast.

The taste is bitter and warm in my throat.

You're so exquisitely broken.

Victimizer and victim all in one.

Some might call you pathetic.

But not me.

I love you, Tekarn.

And you're going to go behind the curtain now.

Because you're a soldier.

Because you'll do anything.

Because you're you.

Now get moving.

"Yes, High Celebrant," Tekarn said, pressing trembling fingers to his forehead in salute, and then without further hesitation he set forwards.

Every step was a ponderous eternity. Every impact of boot against floor was a deafening retort. It was hot, it was a thousand degrees in there. Tekarn was drenched in sweat. His pupils were dilated. Fight and flight were two screaming, wailing voices trapped within a body that would not listen.

As he approached, there was a strange rippling motion along the curtain, and twelve individuals cloaked in sheer black detached themselves, striding forward to meet the First Eltok in perfect unison. Their faces were obscured by multi-faceted masks and dominated by a central lens that revealed nothing and reflected everything. They allowed Tekarn to pass between their ranks, then turned to follow, a silent and advancing wall of black that matched his each and every step.

When he reached the curtain, he did not stop because he knew that if he stopped he would never ever start again. Instead, Tekarn merely barged through, his fists swinging at his sides, and passed into a realm of pure and total darkness.

Ninety-nine candles were there to guide the way, though their light could barely penetrate the shadows laid thick over this ghastly realm. Tekarn followed the path dutifully, his mind and heart both racing as he took step after step after step. He wasn't supposed to be here he wasn't supposed to be here this was wrong this was wrong his brain telling him over and over run away run away run away no human should see this no person should ever-

And then he was standing before a cloaked figure sitting atop a throne of white bone, its wizened fingers tapping in perfect and even rhythm against the chair. Its face was obscured by a veil of fine silk, though Tekarn could just faintly discern the outline of a human head. The attendants behind him were whispering in unison, chanting or discussing or accusing in a language Tekarn had never heard in his life. The words were coming from all around him, swirling about him like a storm until one single voice cut with startling clarity through the noise.

"Beautiful, isn't He?" Kor said, and Tekarn couldn't help but flinch. He hadn't even heard the other man approach. "Go on. Step closer. Lift the veil - He wants you to see His face."

Tekarn tried to speak but could not. He didn't want to see. He really, really, really didn't want to see. He wanted to break down and cry and curl into a small ball. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be warm and to be safe and he wanted Arha back and he wanted Ekane back, Worm help him! He was so fucking lonely and so very sad and he just COULDN'T FUCKING DO THIS SHIT ANYMORE.

But he could do it, in truth. Because nevertheless he reached up, grabbed the edge of the veil, and lifted.

Later that night, as the First Eltok sat alone in his office with a deafening roar in his ears and a vacant look in his eyes, he would come to realize that this meeting was two things from two very different men. From Kor, it was an invitation.

And from Bartok, it was punishment.