hi all; still not doing so great, stressed out over our gas problems. still waiting for a water heater replacement. I've lost track of how long it's been.
Anyway, this is the first of two sequels to Fate's Pawn
Chapter 1
Kaz, Harkon, Svargia and Alcippe lurked under the cover of a net woven with silk vegetation as the Selenite militia practiced their favourite form of execution, that of crucifixion, on the outspoken plainsman, Kurihor Horsemaster.
“I hate having to wait,” said Svargia, in agonies of concern for her kinsman.
“Better to do it properly than not do it at all by dying with him,” said Kaz, grimly. “They’ve got fifty men out there if they have a dozen. They know the plainsfolk would rush them and get him down if they could.”
“What if your plan doesn’t work?” asked Svargia.
“We chalk it up as another score to settle with the invaders,” said Kaz. “Alcitha, how long does that breathe-easy spell last?”
“An hour,” said Alcitha. “I don’t even know if it will work to overcome the drag on his lungs from being hung like that.”
“That’s why I’m using the work cantrip, lighten load on his body, to help him push up. And he should be aware that he has spells helping him, and unless he’s a complete idiot, he won’t give it away. Alethos showed me how to store power within me, and Harkon’s letting you use his power storage gem. We just need him to get to a point that most people have died, so the troops go away and leave him be. No officer likes his men to sit around dicing and lollygagging when they could be performing meaningless tasks of a menial nature to emphasise the inherent superiority of the dumb ass who gives orders over the peasants who perform them.”
“Your prejudices are on display again,” said Harkon.
“I don’t like the self-appointed aristocracy, especially the Selenites,” said Kaz.“Besides, it is anathema to me that they should pervert the ‘death’ glyph in this way, with a bar across the top of it for the arms to be stretched out.”
Harkon gave a soft chuckle, thinking that his tiny, blue-skinned friend had come a long way from the frightened, but determined ex-slave who had demanded to show she could be a warrior. Now, she was a Glyph-Lord of Alethos, god of Death and Truth, bound by prophecy, and her own iron will strong enough to rescue her people, the cursed race of tróglings, from their kinsfolk, the often-cruel Toróg.
“Some call that perversion of the glyph a new glyph, that of ‘Murder,’” he said. “But you are right.”
“It’ll be a serious blow to the Selenites,” said Kaz. “Rescuing a rebel leader, and carrying on the fight against their occupation. We have to break the power of Selen and her brother-consort, the Trickster to break the curses of chaos. And just because we have hundreds of freed trógling, and many wolfingas who used to be Lycoids, doesn’t mean we have enough of an army.”
The tiny trógling, those who were willing to fight, made a formidable night cavalry, riding ex-werewolves who had either chosen wolf form, or who could shift at will. Kaz herself had a wolf-friend, Konisia. But it was not enough against the might of the imperial army.
“That’s why we’ve got a heap of hidden bases,” said Svargia. The wolves had been very helpful with that, scenting the tracks of brigands to take their dens from them as well as making travel safer for ordinary folk.
“Yes, and those scrolls Protasion translated from the temple in the Deadlands were extremely useful in outlining this ‘kryptene’ or ‘hidden’ warfare,” said Kaz.
“The followers of Pollonis would never be able to do it,” sniggered Alcitha. “They interpret warfare and honour in the most straightforward way possible.”
“So long as we don’t dishonour ourselves with atrocities, whatever the Selenites do, it’s a valid tactic,” said Kaz. “And I did ask Alethos as well as believing that he wouldn’t have permitted his temple library to have such documents if it wasn’t.”
“It certainly has them rattled,” agreed Harkon. The Selenite army never knew when their supply trains would be attacked, their supplies, even under guard, ruined, their pay-chests raided, or would have to fight off night attacks which appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and disappeared into nowhere.
The watchers waited out the long hours until the officer in charge of the detachment ordered his men back to their barracks. As soon as they had withdrawn, the leafy net was swiftly folded up and stowed in a backpack, and the four ran to the cross on the hill. A sharpblade spell on an axe brought it down, and Harkon, from a mining community, used the mining cantrip ‘powder mineral’ on the heavy nails, a means used to extract ore from rocks. This caused less damage to Kurihor than trying to extract them. Alcitha, a Glyph-Priest of Alethos, and associate priest of Latrika, sister to Alethos and a goddess of healing, quickly healed Kurihor.
“Not that I’m complaining, but who are you?” he asked.
“A more organised resistance than you have,” said Harkon. “This way. And you rabble, disperse. You can get word of him through Vulk.”
The plainsfolk who had come to give their support to their dying leader were ready for a quarrel.
“GO!” snapped Kurihor. “They kept me alive. Let us trust them.”
“So I should hope, cousin,” snapped Svargia.
“Little Svargia?”
“I grew up,” said Svargia.
The plainsmen dispersed, suspiciously, but this well-co-ordinated rescue was beyond what they might have hoped to do. The cross was, meanwhile, on fire, from a spell or two from Svargia, and would be reduced to ash ere long. It would cause the Selenites a headache over whether their prey had escaped, or been given a funerary pyre by his own people.
Kurihor followed his rescuers into a storm drain, and found he must trust to Svargia to lead him, as the others plunged on through the darkness without apparent concern. Kaz, of course, relied on the darksense, the sonar which was a part of her people; the others were using rings of night-seeing, booty from the minions of a bloodsucker. Kurihor did not know this, and fought terror over being lost in the dark, with occasional flashes of light from drains above.
It had not taken long for half a dozen trógling to map the entire city drain network, and to add extra passages, and back routes into – or out of – strategic points. The Kryptowarriors could leave the boiler-room below the temple complex of Alethos, and emerge at any point in the city, or leave it, via storm drains, and drains into the wharfs on the river. There was also a hidden door into the Selenite barracks. So far it had only been used to introduce a few plagues of mice in their grain; but it was there against need.
It was not long before Kurihor was hiding in plain sight with other waiters in the inn ‘A Taste of the Steppe,’ run by Crooknose, the huge, broken-nosed proprietor of the Tribe of the Wild Falcons, who had adopted Kaz and her friends as members of his tribe for having rescued kinsmen from slavery. He provided succour for slaves passing through on the way to freedom in a recently-added complex of cellars.
“I owe you,” Kurihor said. “Perhaps we can work together.”
“Perhaps,” said Kaz. “But only if you and your people take my orders; I’ve an overall schedule for dismantling the Selenite empire and I won’t put up with a bunch of amateurs. What you and your people do to cause trouble for them is up to you, and we’ll get you supplies at need, but I prefer you knowing nothing about us.”
“I would not give you away!” cried Kurihor.
“Not deliberately, no,” said Kaz. “But your people don’t have the highly trained discipline our people do. Good luck; and good bye.”
She had vanished by the time Kurihor had mustered even half an answer.
It had been why Kurihor had been taken essentially blind through the drains; what he did not know, he could not give away.
Only a small, select group knew all the tunnels.
Harkon, Glyph Lord-Priest of Alethos, on the road to herodom; Glyph-Lords Kaz, Zalmox, and Svargia; Glyph Priests Alcitha, Protasion, and Lelyn, and initiates Evgon, Kuros, Polia, Vulk, and Rynn, another Trógling. Even Lord-Priest Pythas, Commandant of the Temple, and his wife, Priest-Lord Arana, parents of Lelyn, did not know more than a few basics.
It had begun, the unravelling of an empire based on interlopers and gods who were barely gods but powerful heroes aping those who had stepped into the niches of power within the land. So far, most Selenites barely noticed it, murmuring only that some of the natives were restive. They did not feel the growing feeling that something was afoot.
Ralthur Kron, Governor of the City State of Mesolimnos, felt it, and was disturbed. Born into a noble Selenite family, he was raised to be a governor or general, according to his talents. He was governor, but a martial governor, worshipping Thanus, warrior-champion of the red moon, who was apostate to his former god, Alethos, out of helpless, and indeed, hopeless love for Selen. And Ralthur Kron wondered what was to come. A Glyph-Lord of Thanus, he carried his concerns to his god in prayer… and received no answer.
What he heard was a young, clear voice singing a hymn of Alethos; and what he felt was his own god flinching before it.
Truth is a tongue which fears not to speak
Truth is a sword which protects the weak
Death is Truth in the beauty of Time
Death is the rebirth now made sublime
Alethos guide us always onwards
Truth will lead us through the flame
Alethos lead us ever forward
Death will guide us without shame
Truth be my words without shame or fear
Truth be my being whilst I am here
Death be my goal, my reason to strive
Death be all that keeps me alive
Alethos guide us always onwards
Truth will lead us through the flame
Alethos lead us ever forward
Death will guide us without shame
Truth be the flame that burns in my heart
Truth to the end from the very first start
Death I embrace with fervour and joy
Death shall take me wholly, not destroy
Alethos guide us always onwards
Truth will lead us through the flame
Alethos lead us ever forward
Death will guide us without shame
Ralthur Kron shivered.
He knew many Alethosi; got on well with their Glyph-ranked members. But he feared death as he suspected none of them did.
It was a stray, and heretical thought which touched him, wondering if Thanus feared death.
Ralthur Kron counted the Alethos Glyph-Lord/Priest Harkon as a friend. Harkon had once saved his life, when he had been set-upon by Marsh-Creepers, colloquially, and, in Ralthur’s opinion, inappropriately, known as ‘Ducks.’ The semi-intelligent chaos creatures were vicious, with sharp teeth in their ‘beaks’ and they carried spears. His bodyguard had fled, and the only one to stand with him was a youth, named Protasion, who was travelling with an armed band to go on to university. Harkon had turned up and saved both of them, and Protasion had abandoned his plans to go to University, to instead join the cult of Alethos. Where he was, Ralthur knew, doing very well.
The encounter with the creatures of chaos had shaken Ralthur’s faith in the Selenite pantheon, but his family expected him to rise as governor, and that meant accepting the pantheon in which he had been reared.
“Alethos, if you can hear me, let me speak to Harkon,” he muttered. “I dare not paint a target on him by sending for him.”
His secretary came in, an officious fellow named Quirinus Lex.
“There is a young local patrician here to see you, by the name of Protasion Chrysandos,” said Lex.
“Ah, I know him,” said Ralthur Kron. “I will see him.”
“Will you have me detain his bodyguard?”
“Thanos’s bollocks, Quirinus, have you no manners at all? It’s hard to recall that you have a second name when you ask something that crass,” said Ralthur.
“He’s a tough-looking customer,” said Lex.
“I’m not effete,” snapped Ralthur.
Protasion was not dressed in his accustomed armour, but in the elaborately-draped chiton, which fell to just below the tops of his ornate boots, the clothing of a man of affairs, with a lined chlamys over it, caught at one corner with an elaborate, and expensive, clasp, showing the heraldry of his family. His bodyguard was, indeed, a hulking brute, in cuir-bouilli armour, and a well-used sheath holding his sword. He sported an eyepatch.
Ralthur suppressed a gasp, and waited until Lex had left, inviting his guest to sit.
“Harkon! Have you lost an eye?” he asked, in a whisper.
Protasion spoke up.
“My father has charged me with discussing the matter of taxation. Will you permit me to raise a privacy cantrip?”
“Of course,” said Ralthur. Discussions of a quid pro quo were common enough in the paying of taxes, and though he was, himself, scrupulously fair, there were those who were ready to take bribes.
With the cantrip in place, Harkon pushed up the eyepatch, revealing a second, good eye.
“People look at deformities more than physiognomy,” he rumbled. “I count you a friend; we have met socially since our first meeting, and you are an honourable man. Alethos informs me that you might be ready to leave the apostate, Thanus, and come into his service.”
“I… I have thought of it; but I fear to speak out loud lest Thanus hears…”
“Protasion and I are both priests; either one of us constitutes a temple to Alethos within a considerable radius, so, permit me…” he drew his sword, and laid it on Ralthur’s desk. He and Protasion made gestures familiar to Ralthur. “We are now in an inner sanctum of a temple of Alethos,” went on Harkon. “Change is coming, and you will have to choose sides.”
“I hate chaos,” said Ralthur. “And I have thought, many times, that the Selenite pantheon is made up of pale copies of true gods.”
“That is the truth,” said Harkon. “Why now?”
“I’ve been trying to reconcile my upbringing with what I see, and what the cultists did in the Empire are nothing compared with stories I’ve heard out here. And it’s a sort of insult to copy the remits of the existing gods.”
“Yes,”, said Harkon. “You know we’re in quiet revolt?”
“Yes, and I received a directive this morning,” said Ralthur. “I was told to seize twenty random citizens, and give the rebels a day round to give themselves up, or have those citizens executed.”
“Has anyone else seen this directive?”
“No, not yet, it was sealed, and I have not shown my secretary. I suspect him of worshipping D… the Trickster,” said Ralthur, remembering that most people did not like to say the name of Daze.
“Good; burn it now,” said Harkon.
Ralthur struck a spark and set light to the document.
“What next?” he asked. “They’ve tripled the guard on me lately; I think Quirinus Lex spies on me. But they doubt my loyalty, and this order is a test.”
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