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Post by ashenmoon on Aug 31, 2021 18:04:56 GMT
Smoke rose, twisted fingers reaching up in the air, grasping - grasping...
The Hunter stood on the hilltop, the lakes spread before him - sheets of bruised metal beneath the purling sky - the reunited host of Malvern around him - and his hand sunk, the Horn heavy in his arms. The Horn was heavy; he looked down. It was all so... old. He looked up, and the dust rose - up, up towards that sky...
Around him the Men yelled, they cheered, they laughed. The city shook, trembled, undulated - vanished beyond the smoke, the twisting fingers. He molded his face into the old-familiar mask, turned, and smiled:
"Charge!" he didn't say, the word - the name - the memory dead on his lips. His eyes wandered, off into the darkling sky - there, a skein of thrushes scattering from some unseen, imagined, threat.
"My Lord," he said - the Palaienid - no, not that one; that was a long time ago. The Archon looked down. The Horn, such a weight - he felt his chest collapsing, gasped - dragged breath, once more - how many now? - into lungs too ancient, too weary...
A boy, a young man - stalking, prowling the strand, dark sand molded by paw-prints, spear in his hand, flint glinting dully - looked into the Hunter's eyes. The Archon stared back, gaze caught, nowhere to run - and where would He run to! would that he could! - the resemblance too startling, and memories of a life long abandoned whispered, dry and brittle and faint - too faint to hear, lost beyond recall. Who was he, that boy on that shore?
"My Lord!" the voice repeated, cruelly insistent. "We await Your command - a sign, a blessing, of Your pleasure!"
"Yes, yes," the boy whispered. There was a great shout - an intolerable clamour - and he turned, and he watched the thrushes swaying through the nightfall, the memory of cold sand beneath his feet.
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Post by Timeon on Sept 13, 2021 21:55:11 GMT
Constantin found Acastus and several of his Companions deep in argument with two Inquisitors.
"We demand our right of Passage!" one of the Inquisitors tailed of his sentence in a high pitch.
"The Old Law rules here." Acastus proclaimed, an arm outstretched to prevent the Inquisitors from stepping into the tent behind him.
"Malvern's Law?" the other Inquisitor spat provocatively. "For that is the Old Law."
The guards exchanged concerned glances, caught on the wrong foot.
"What of it?" Constantin barked, pressing between them, seizing both sides up and down. "What goes here?"
"We can smell magic. Daimons. You covet something. You keep us from it, deny us Passage."
Constantin waved them away like so many mosquitoes. "Away, away with you. Back to Alvaro. Back to your Aurelio Manza, if he has a word to say to any of you!"
The Inquisitors scowled and cursed, folding their arms beneath their robes, and faded with the evening light, over a hill and out of sight.
Acastus caught Constantin's gaze. "We're out of time. We have to cut them loose, execute them - do something, commander."
"I need-" the words caught on Constantin's lips. He nodded and placed his hand on the hilt of his blade, and pushed into the tent.
There he found the Golem-Master, sat impassively on a chair with his legs folded and eyes closed. Marcila - the Golem - stood juggling, unconcerned.
Images of the carnage upon the plains assaulted Constantin's senses - Aurelio Manza, writhing in the dirt, shrieking and laughing at some unthinkable jest. Rage gave Constantin strength near forgotten, hurtling across the distance between them, till he had lifted Synesius up by his collar. The Golem-Master's eyes fluttered open questioningly. Constantin shook him and sent spittle spraying across the man's face.
"Is this what your kind offers us?"
"I don't- understand." Synesius croaked.
"Damnation. I have seen it. The High Inquisitor turned into a beast!" Constantin felt tears running down his cheek. He felt deceived. One hand slowly unclasped Synesius and then hung loosely by his side. His free hand edged towards his sword. "This is what happens when Man gives in to Daimon, when he allows the Daimon to take control. Damnation! That is your true face!"
Even as Constantin's sword pricked Synesius' belly, the Golem-Master spoke calmly, evenly. "Was your High Inquisitor not already a beast?" Synesius dropped to the ground, a bundle of bones. "And the Spirits within him? Tormented to madness? Would you not also seek vengeance, freedom? Death? Daimons are but a reflection. A mirror we hold up to ourselves."
Constantin fell to his knees, fists clenched. Marcila's hand brushed through his hair, soothing his muscles and easing his agonies. "You want to hand us over to the Inquisition, or kill us. You have not yet decided which of the two." she surmised.
"By keeping you here, you are putting the lives of my men at risk." Constantin straightened himself, though he did not push Marcila away as she caressed him back into more sober spirits.
"You are right, husband. We besmirch your honour." Marcila proclaimed, passing Synesius a sharp glance. The Golem-Master seemed to have been toppled by the gesture, mouth agape, brows knitted. Had his own creation surprised even him?
Constantin beheld Marcila with momentary wonder, when muffled cries erupted from outside. Sword in hand, Constantin staggered out. The sunlight had faded, and the shadows of evening had taken on malicious form and intent. Inquisitors had encircled them. A nightmarish fiend cackle in chains between them, leashed and restrained - Aurelio Manza! The handful of Companions who stood guard brandished their arms at empty air, warding off the unstoppable and pitiless. Flames sparked out of nothing, licking the dry grass about them. Father Alvaro emerged from the line, casting down his hood.
"Commander! I have come to barter!" He sounded far too pleased with himself.
Taking in the odds, Constantin sheathed his sword. An honourable death might suit his ego, but it would not be of service to Aleimon Palaienid, nor to any of his men. Burying his pride, Constantin spread his arms wide.
"Not stopping to ask a neighbour for alms, are we pater?"
"No, no charity today, commander!" Acastus moved between them. Alvaro merely pinched two fingers on Acastus' extended blade and moved it away, and then stepped around the man. "I hear my Inquisitors have been denied Passage! What is it you hide with such embarrassment and shame?"
Constantin considered his options. Even were he to turn over Synesius and Marcila, it would still be proof enough of deceit to allow Alvaro to wrest control of the Legion. It appeared there was no escape.
"Nothing to say, commander?" Alvaro cocked his head. "Just as in our last conversation. A leader of men should not hesitate so. Should not find himself so torn. I've not come to make a burning candle of you, Constantin Noval. I've merely come to insist an answer to my earlier question."
Constantin blinked. "Last we spoke you were in search of a new master. It seems to me that you rediscovered yours."
Aurelio Manza began to pray in a woman's voice behind them, uttering the Tenants and Promises of Man, occasionally wracked by gasps of ecstasy.
"The High Inquisitor has but to say the word - and we are his. But he appears short of orders to give."
Manza's tongue flickered, suddenly quiet, calculating?
"And what is it you want, pater?"
"To continue the Inner Crusade, at the right hand of your would-be Emperor. For Man to rise from the ashes, even as Malvern torches all we have laboured to build."
"And if I accept to bring you before Aleimon Palaienid?"
"We pledge ourselves this very night, beneath this ashen moon! Refuse - and we expose your secrets, and leave your men leaderless. And Khalez will take your place in this design."
The commotion, Constantin could see, was drawing a crowd. From the hills before them soldiers arrived stumbling to the edge of camp to look on. A growing number of faces revealed wonder and horror both. Aurelio Manza danced for them obscenely, tattered robes billowing, claws and tongue testing the air. How long before they tossed this evil ape a coin? A mockery of what he had been.
Constantin Noval placed his hand upon his sword once more, undecided still. He pushed now towards what must surely be the end of his tale. Alvaro's eyes fluttered between sword and Constantin's face, studying ever muscle and detail. Constantin opened his mouth to speak, when the tent cloth moved, and out stepped a living, featureless statue of stone. Carried in its arms Synesius lay cradled like a broken doll.
"It is I, Synesius of House Lascaris, who pledge myself to Emperor Aleimon Palaienid!" the cripple announced, his voice carrying across the ridge.
Constantin saw the expression on Alvaro's face shatter. An instant of recognition. It took not a second for the Inquisitor to realise he had been outmaneuvered. A clattering of metal and a howl was all the warning provided before Aurelio Manza went taut on his chains, pressing himself towards the Golem-Master and his toy.
"Mine." a single guttural word - no, a command. Aurelio Manza pointed at Synesius with a talon. "Mine."
"This one fears the Chimera." the golem turned its head towards Alvaro. It still spoke in Marcila's voice. "The Chimera disgusts him."
"Rein in your master!" Constantin shouted, a primordial terror welling within him. He was back on the field, as Manza thrashed, dragging that horse towards him.
Alvaro snapped commands, but Aurelio Manza did not take to this denial kindly. Suddenly, all melted into chaos. Aurelio Manza flailed, sending Inquisitors flying from his chains. The beast extended its limbs and leapt through the air, landing on all fours before Constantin, Alvaro and the prisoners. The golem adjusted its position to cradle Synesius in a single arm, leaving the other free. Acastus, ever faithful, leapt forward, crying the Palaienid name. Manza was a blur. Chains whistled through the air. Acastus clutched at his chest, blood spurting. His sword arced through the air, even as Manza sprang towards Synesius. But the Golem caught Acastus' sword, and Manza dashed straight into it. In a foreign voice, Manza gasped and screamed, blade poking clear through his chest and point shuddering out of his back. Constantin lost not a moment longer, hacking at Manza who raised a fist in defense, one of his fingers coming clean.
Yells of panic and outrage surged through the camp. Flashes of light heralded rifle fire, Manza's flesh suddenly pockmarked and exploding. Constantin saw that most of the men had been caught unawares, however, and stood unarmed. The Chimera cartwheeled sideways, talons flashing as it gutted another of his Companions. The Inquisitors reacted too late, but their magics filled the air and tore into Manza with abandon. Manza began to rip them limb from limb.
The Inquisitors, however, were taking their toll. Manza flailed but he did so wildly, as if struck blind. He thrust himself from one group of men to another, each time more sporadic - desperate. Alvaro blasphemed to equal measure, throwing himself into the fight. Constantin wrested the Palaienid banner from the outside of the tent, swallowed the bile and terror which held him fast, and charged to certain death. That night, no man distinguished an Inquisitorial blade from that of a Monarchist or Republican. Heralded to the centre of camp by pikes and bullets, dragging his corrupted form behind him, Aurelio Manza finally collapsed to one knee. Now himself encircled, the abomination raised a skeletal face to the crowds.
"You - too - will feed - in time." Aurelio Manza spoke in his own voice once again. "We are - all - simply - desires - made flesh."
A cannonball finally tore his head from his shoulders. Constantin Noval planted the Palaienid banner atop Manza's corpse. The Legion chanted in unison.
"Palaienid! Long live Aleimon Palaienid! Ten thousand years!"
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Post by Timeon on Sept 21, 2021 18:41:21 GMT
They burned Aurelio Manza atop a pyre at dawn. Solemn officers of the Legion looked on. Colonel Donato Khalez was amongst them, his expression unreadable. Constantin Noval took position standing beside him. Across from the sizzling flames, Father Alvaro could be spied, face half-hidden by his hood. As the stars disappeared overhead, and the morning sun banished yesterday's travails, Constantin could not help but ponder what it was that Aurelio Manza had signified. For a few long years, Manza had reigned over the Republic near undisputed. Only Aleimon Palaienid had dared to contest his will. The High Inquisitor had been a symbol of strength, enlightenment and courage to many - the lantern against the dark after Eclipse. Constantin mused that he felt no joy at Manza's fate. Perhaps they would have all been better off had Manza been right. Then, at least, the Inner Crusade might not have been for nothing. Burning in death, Aurelio Manza emitted the stench of old mutton and incense.
"This seals it nicely, doesn't it?" Khalez muttered, then turned to Constantin. "Suppose the only way the Republic lives on now is with an Emperor."
Even as Khalez offered this informal surrender of his command, Constantin met Alvaro's gaze, the hissing fire parting momentarily.
"Change makes fools of us all." Constantin gripped Khalez by the shoulder. "None of our generation were born monarchists, Colonel. Spare yourself your own judgement."
"What of them?" Khalez inclined his head towards the Inquisitors arrayed on the other side of the pyre.
"All must be allowed to serve." Constantin recited from memory. His grip turned to ice, squeezing Khalez. "But the Inquisitors will serve according to our rules. Not according to theirs. That is the difference. There will be a place for us all."
"You'll trust that sorry lot?"
"I know it must be hard to see that now, to see the chance of redemption in the likes of them."
A cold wind swept across the plain and the pyre coughed and sputtered. Buttoning his coat closed, Colonel Khalez clucked his tongue and winked.
"Redemption? Now that is a grand promise from a military man!"
"I learned a hard lesson outside Old Falor." Constantin said, though he knew the words to be vague of meaning. "Aleimon promises-"
"You know what your problem is?" Khalez prodded a thick finger into his chest. "You're as dogmatic as those wretched Inquisitorial shits in rags. Preaching about a fantastical tomorrow. I thought you might have been ahead of me, a free thinker, challenging the establishment. I suspect you're just like all the rest, though. Your faith broke outside the walls of Old Falor. I wager for a moment there, you were a free man, Noval. But like any true fanatic, you just committed your heart and soul to the next cause you stumbled across, didn't you?"
Constantin Noval found himself speechless. His fists knotted in rage.
"I rejected the Inquisition because the world needs hope, Colonel."
"There, at least, it seems we finally agree." Colonel Khalez spat onto the pyre, which by now was settling into embers. "Don't think I'll mourn His Grace a moment longer. Time to break camp, I think. I've sent a messenger ahead to Sabria. With any luck, they will hold all the stronger for it, knowing that help is just over the horizon. I'm hoping for a warm bath and a whore in Sabria when this is over. If your Emperor promises my men that much, then count on our undying faith, hope and loyalty."
Khalez sauntered off, and Constantin chose to follow soon after. He did not hope to be left to the company of the Inquisition. Long after the pyre had burned out, and even as the Legion prepared to march, Constantin would still see Alvaro standing by the ashen pyre, lost in thought.
-
In the city of Sabria, the echo of a Malvernian horn had signaled either the beginning of the end - or the end of a beginning. High Inquisitor Tomas de Campo figured he would soon discover which of the two this day would bring. News that relief might yet come had changed his plans. The defense of the city had been prepared, and a trap set, should the city fall. Yet there was a chance now that it might hold, long enough for reinforcements to arrive. As he walked through the streets of Sabria with his entourage, Tomas de Campo hailed bands of men manning barricades, or positioned at windows and rooftops. The mark of Veronika Heraklid had been painted above doorways and upon makeshift palisades. Her effigy loomed in every shadow, behind every corner. It was a symbol of hope which caused the Inquisitors who walked beside him to wrinkle their noses with scorn. "Your tolerate this veneration of icons?" cried out Arcibaldo Gotta, as they passed heresy upon heresy.
To the ordinary folk, Veronika Heraklid she was a martyred Saint - a stand-in for the false gods of the past. Had Aurelio Manza stood here instead of him, such heretical demonstrations would have been punished. Ordinary folk had replaced their superstitions and false gods with new religious beliefs. Prayers to Daimons had been replaced by prayers to Saints. Prayers to Daimon or Deceased alike betrayed the very tenets of the Republic. Belief in an Afterlife was anathema. Such heretical beliefs implied a rejection of the the philosophies and science which had stripped the Archons of their power and mysticism. Science reduced Daimons to that which could be measured, dissected and defeated. Superstition led men to believe in divinities which were all-knowing, and could reward or punish men according to their virtues or shortcomings. If men believed in a higher power, then they would not believe in themselves. All now depended upon the wits and strength of mortal men, whose names and faces he did not know, not upon divine powers.
"I do not punish them, Brother Glotta, because their faith hangs by a thread. Allow them their icons on the eve of this battle. Do not mistake their icons for idols."
While belief in the Daimon waned, many still thought that some divine force moved the engines of the cosmos. They still dreamed that their prayers might reach more profound ears. The Inquisition fought fire with fire, but freedom had come at a great cost. There were those who cursed that freedom had cost too much. This bleak despair had been the Inquisition's greatest failing. Tomas de Campo hoped to live long enough to rectify it.
Tracing a path through familiar alleys and old haunts, Tomas de Campo wound his way through the heart of the city, until at last they came to a crooked green door behind a potter's shop. De Campo worked the brass knocker insistently. The door creaked open, an old familiar face greeting him with surprise.
"Master!" his majordomo gasped, pulling the door wide. De Campo signaled to his entourage to stay put, and slipped inside.
"All's well, Pilato. Where are the children?"
"Dressed, and waiting for you, Master Tomas."
De Campo followed the man inside, through the kitchen which looked out onto the alley and into the servant's quarters. Sitting on a bed, wrapped in thick woolen cloaks, his daughter Lidia looked up at him with eyes more inquisitive than Pietro Gori's had ever been. Beside her sat her cousin, his nephew Mattio, his face resting in his hands, shoulders slouched. De Campo patted his cane upon the floor and bid them rise. "It's time to go, children."
Mattio began to weep. Lidia did as she was told. Her pout betrayed that a near open rebellion loomed.
"They are afraid." Pilato's hands fussed with their cloaks, tightening them. Lidia slapped him away.
"We are not afraid." her eyes hardened, even as they trembled. "We are outraged!"
De Campo heaved with a sigh. He recognised his defeat. If he wished them to go peacefully, his authority had already failed him. He bent to one knee, cane in hand, as if submitting to the Empress of Malvern. "All children are going. Even as we speak. And they, too, are leaving everything behind."
"Pilato tells me you are High Inquisitor now. Well, you aren't a very good one, are you, if you plan on losing." Lidia stood at her full height, but was even then only eye to eye with him.
"I taught you to question and doubt the gods of old, Lidia. But not to question your father's authority. And I was your father long before I was High Inquisitor. So I am telling you must take Mattio's hand, and you that you must go. I came to say goodbye."
"You were my father before you were High Inquisitor. But not before you were an Inquisitor." Lidia casually reminded him of his fallibility, his vulnerability, his indiscretion. As if it gave her the upper hand.
"I love both of you very much." De Campo found the fatherly admission difficult, but he had pondered it long enough, in his prison cell. "And I am sorry that I have too often been an Inquisitor, and not a father. In that, I am afraid you are right, Lidia. I have been an Inquisitor for even longer."
Laying his cane between them in an act of peace, he spread his arms wide. Lidia hesitated, then swallowed her imperial pride. He embraced her, felt her hair upon his face, and held her tight. It weakened him, but he was glad for it. When he let go, he was sure that this must be the end - until the Republic had been rid of its uninvited guests. Perhaps forever.
"Will you pray to Saint Heraklid for us?" Lidia asked.
The question winded him. He passed Pilato a withering gaze, and the servant collapsed inwardly beneath the weight of it. Lidia waited expectantly. Tolerating heresy was one thing. Would he promise to commit it for her? He leaned down and kissed her head. The words trembled upon his lip, and were then retracted. Any Inquisitor who denied wishing he had picked a different path was a liar. Any who thought it possible to change the course of his destiny after inking the tattoos was a madman. Perhaps it was too late for any of them to change. How could they entertain a lie, however pleasant, if the world had long since been cast into night? He could not bring himself to lie, and unlike many of his kin, Tomas de Campo concluded he was not yet mad.
"Goodbye, Lidia. Mattio."
It was all he could manage. Thoroughly embittered, stripped of his delusions, he picked up the cane which had once belonged to Pietro Gori, and walked out of his sister's house for the last time.
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Post by ashenmoon on Sept 27, 2021 19:59:28 GMT
There were no more speeches.
Boriates watched the Hunter's gaze, off into the distance. The God smiled, wistfully.
The general - feeling stodgy in his armour, bereft of his steed - drew his sword. He looked about - at the Men surrounding him, the knights of the South in their pride; the variegated shapes of Spirits, hulking and gangling; at the darkling sky, heavy clouds gathering as bruises above, a confusion of day and night. "Charge!" he mouthed - of course, what else? They had come much too far for second thoughts now - his voice drowned out by the clamour.
And Malvern charged.
*
"Sabria is under attack!" the messenger, breathless atop his mount, shouted as soon as he came within hearing range of Constantin. "Malvern is attacking! The attack is underway!" He kept repeating it as he came closer, lathered horse galloping, as if - by phrasing the words slightly differently each time - he could avoid thinking of the substance of his message too closely.
Drawn faces turned towards Constantin.
It was no surprise, of course. They had expected it for some time. Still...
Sabria, for the first time in her history, was under attack. The heart and jewel of the Republic of Man - Veronika's promise and dream - lay exposed, the villain at her throat; and they, her defenders, were on the wrong side, still hours away.
Above the Legion the Iguana waved, languid and burning, and to their sides - there the Inquisition; there Khalez and his mountaineers; there the tribal signs of the hill folk. If not all the patchwork of the Republic was here represented, then at least a great portion of it was. All of them were bound, one way or another, by Veronika's dream - and so they had no real choice.
"Increase the pace! Double time!"
The marching drums thrummed louder.
*
Tomas de Campo was conveyed to the city limits of Sabria in an enormous iron-wrought carriage, hauled by a team of six drays - the entire monstrosity confiscated from a Varantian family of self-styled aristocrats utterly lacking in taste, but of admittedly sturdy construction. Ordinarily it would have been hopelessly impractical - the congestion of Sabria's inner city almost as famous as that as the Mother of Cities, but with a meaner, more industrial streak to it - but now the streets were empty, the city all but deserted.
They stopped outside a warehouse - a sprawling complex, larger than many palaces, used in part for the storage of medium-caliber cannons and associated material for the Navy - and the High Inquisitor ascended rickety stairs to the wide, flat roof. From there, his entourage led him across to five towering chimneys - when in use, furnace-hot and billowing smoke like a family of ill-tempered volcanoes - but now reaching like unnaturally straight fingers into the sky. De Campo gritted his teeth, grabbed the rungs bolted into the brick wall, and started to climb.
The handles were treacherous, caked with soot which crumbled and flaked beneath his claw-like grip. His shoulders began to ache, and his legs trembled. He looked down: high up enough for a fall to be certainly fatal. He looked up, and regretted it instantly. He pointedly refused to let his mind wander - most of all not to the children. His constant companions - the voices, ever just beyond the threshold of hearing - chattered, gnawed at the back of his mind.
He sought the focus which once had come to him so naturally - the deadly obsession, the all-conquering mission, of the Inquisitor. He found it easily enough - and the climb soon seemed less of a trial. But it was not the same as it once was, that emptiness. There was something... hollow... to it. He swallowed. He stuck to it.
And reached the platform that circled the chimney, far above the ground. Helping hands grabbed on, hoisted him up. An aide offered him a looking-tube, but he waved it off.
He could see Malvern's forces clearly enough without it as they entered the outskirts of the city.
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