​​​​10 Sword of the Faith

WITHIN A TEMPLE nave in ancient Valtar, men and women gathered. Flames licked the charred rims of braziers, turning the red-veined marble orange. A smoky haze filled the chamber. Myral Azarm stood among the gathering. She smelled musty sweat and fear amid the burned scent of sorrel and rose.

On a raised crescent dais, located at the centre of the chancel, the highests sat with faces hidden behind wooden masks. The arms of their carved thrones were as horns, rising to either side above their heads.

Others of the lower priestly class stood with Myral, or watched from the shadowed aisles beyond the columns on either side. The Necros Guard secured the far edges of the room and the narthex. Sheathed swords on hips, they wore leather jerkins with overlapping coin armour. Semi-naked women cavorted, weaving in and out between the columns. Each wore a crown of woven myrtle.

Myral gripped the hilt of a knife in her right hand. She held a kneeling and bound man by his greasy hair with her other. A dozen did likewise, all positioned in precise locations throughout the nave. Odd, but this one had never struggled, never tried to escape, as though accepting his fate. The idea chilled her.

She closed her eyes for a moment. What is it you are doing, woman? This man had done nothing to deserve such an end. None of those kneeling had, but justice wasn’t the point, was it?

The victims gathered for this sacrifice were unusual, a mixture of merchant and noble Valtari, and some foreigners who’d thought Valtar a lovely spot. Three peasants made up the numbers. The highests had insisted on a mostly prestigious class of sacrifice, risking a response from the Valtari elite.

Those covered in welts and bruises, with broken noses and shattered jaws, had not accepted their fate so easily. Some wore cloaks, or tunics embroidered with thread of gold or silver. Torn rags and calloused hands contrasted with glittering jewels and soft skin. Tired eyes, weeping eyes, and eyes refusing to believe. Death would unite them all.

Silence but for the frantic breathing of captives. Any resistance had long since been crushed, the zorast way. Officially, the Faith did not allow torture, but it was effective in conditioning the mind, or breaking it. Some, perhaps including this man before her, accepted, even sought out this moment. Pure madness, she thought, and included herself in the criticism.

A single nod from a highest seated among his counterparts. Myral was thankful her blade was sharp. It sliced effortlessly across the throat of her victim. She cut deep enough to almost decapitate him, and turned her face from the spurting blood. Against Temple doctrine, others let their victims bleed out from shallower cuts. Myral didn’t see the point of cruelty. Better a quick death. The highests turned a blind eye of course. Something they were good at.

She let the dead man fall, blood pooling beneath him on the marble. The blood of the sacrifices mingled as the viscous liquid discovered shallow tracks with an imperceptible slope. A design in the nave’s floor emerged in red, depicting a five-pointed pentagram. Outlined in blood, it represented the five elements: Purpose, Ardour, Expression, Sphere and Life, with the centre of the pentagram representing, Divinity.

The Faith held invocation ceremonies such as this whenever they wished to do something different. They sought the approval of the Grim. Once, the blood had turned black, conveying his displeasure. Thankfully, Myral had not been present at the time. Every priest and priestess who had been, had perished. The Faith had undergone a reformation afterwards.

Myral held the knife limply. With the hood of her light blood-spattered robe pulled forward, she hid her tears. If others noticed, they might doubt her sincerity, her devotion. It could prove dangerous. A zorast temple was a treacherous place. Getting out alive was never guaranteed. The Grim did not care which humans died. Some used this as an excuse to eliminate rivals, to gain position and power. To be offered in sacrifice was said to be an honour, and refusal a terrible betrayal, for which death was the penalty. Myral had no intention of letting anyone honour or punish her anytime soon.

Bodies littered the nave. Worshipers and supplicants gathered between the pillars. Most of the living wore garments as varied as the dead. The cult harvested the weakest from the population, or those they deemed a threat. Myral had cut the throat of many an old, blind, or invalided person, but some had been politicians or critics who didn’t know when to shut up. Today, they had killed the richest, the most powerful they could lay hands on. This wasn’t a sacrifice. It was a declaration of war.

Myral knew she’d done terrible things. She possessed fragmented memories of her actions. She’d purged the worst bits, but something always remained. It was that or swim within the turgid depths of insanity. She had never been a good swimmer, born in Tarsus, and far from the ocean.

I guess, I really have sworn myself to the Grim. Why did it bother her? For fifteen years, she’d served at the temple. It was a second home, though her reasons for coming had been different. Was she not a zorast in truth? The thought sent a shiver of revulsion through her.

Presently, she watched as a highest rose from his throne and took two steps forward. Like a proud father, he surveyed his young ones. Each of the highests wore plain masks with eye and mouth slits, but Myral knew their identities. Knowledge was key to survival.

The tension of waiting on his words was delicious. The feelings within her were a mixture of fear, pleasure, and confusion. Confusion and fear, at the pleasure she felt.

His voice though soft, held an undertone of iron. ‘There will be one among you who stands as a new highest, to join us in leading the faithful. This one will become the Sword of the Faith, as prophesied in the Book of Chains. The Grim Master, Reaper of Souls, has spoken His intent and named to us, the one.’ The slits in his faceless mask rested on Myral as he spoke.

No, she thought. No, please. I don’t want this. What was wrong with her? She was already a priestess, wasn’t she? No, this is not what I wanted – all those stolen lives. Yet the opportunities offered by her new position would be greater. Besides, it wasn’t as though she got to choose.

‘Step forward,’ the highest commanded.

Myral hefted the edges of her bloodied white robe, and stepped carefully over the bodies. She skirted the pentagram, and halted before the dais. Her neck itched, sensing all those eyes. Not a few among them now plotted her demise. Death was the way of zorast life, a truth only a believer could appreciate. A wooden mask would not save her no more than being named, Sword of the Faith. A dubious title, which suggested she would be a scapegoat for the highests and whatever they planned.

To her shock, the highest knelt to cup her chin in cold hands. She heard the gasps of others. His wooden face filled her vision, eyes like liquid emeralds within. Not a native of this land, this man, but a northerner. The Faith did not care about origins.

‘The Grim chooses you as a highest to sit among us, Myral Azarm. Although, before you can take your seat, you must prove yourself. Raise your knife.’

She raised it, uncertain. Why did she feel a desire to both please this man and flee? No, it wasn’t him, but the power lying hidden in the shadows. Has the Grim chosen me, or is this a lie? No, no matter how she looked at it, it wasn’t good.

‘Look within.’

Myral looked at the blade. At first, she saw nothing but drying blood and her dull reflection. She looked deeper and saw blackness, swirling like smoke beneath glass. Through the smoke, she saw them rise from the ground. Thousands, tens of thousands, and she saw the slaughter to come, spreading across the world, devouring Adalalcas and Eladaldor, and distant lands she’d never seen.

‘Vampires,’ she said, incapable of keeping the fear from her voice. The most terrible of all viralic kind.

‘Our master’s time is at hand,’ the highest whispered to her. ‘You have earned your place among us, a position of authority, and of safety. You are worthy and have served well. However, I will remind you, refusal would be unwise. Do you understand?’

She nodded, feeling sick.

‘The Cleansing is upon us,’ the highest announced in a louder voice, pulling away. ‘It will march across this false imperium and strike at its wicked heart. You will witness the glory of our master, and know His wrath upon this world!’

A cheer rose, followed by a low rumbling chant.

At a gesture from another highest, this one a woman, the semi-naked dancers approached the dais. Bloody welts adorned their backs from the scourge, and each of them held a short blade of iron. With a nod from the highest, they plunged the knives into their hearts. Not a one of them cried out as she died with a smile. Amazing, what certain noxious plants could do.

‘Sacrifice and blood,’ the highest cried, ‘is what He demands of all mortals in penance for our original sin. We defied Him, we denied Him, and now we take His name in vain. Blood and death must answer such sin. The Cleansing is upon us and our reward will follow.

‘You will gather my followers, Myral Azarm, and lead them forth.’ The highest spoke to her in a lower tone. ‘You will have a rival. You know him and he in turn has marked you. The Grim despises weakness. Therefore, prove yourself worthy. We reward loyalty, but not nearly so well as competence.’

She turned her head a fraction, and observed in the shadows beyond the nave, a pale-skinned, bald, and scarred man. He had lowered his hood and was staring at her. Seth Marak was a lower priest, and now her subordinate. In theory, at least. The man was a power unto himself within the Faith, though he had joined a short time ago. Many flocked to his side, listening to his heresy. He opposed the highests and sought to rid the Faith of their political manoeuvring. Yes, she understood. The highests wanted her to kill him.

I’ve been a zorast too long. She no longer recalled her previous life except as a collection of vague memories she wasn’t certain were hers. Only her bi-annual reports convinced her she’d had another life at all.

Remember who you are. Remember why you are here. At times, she had forgotten, so immersed within this life had she become.

Seth saw her watching, and he answered with a feral grin.

‡

PAIN ENVELOPED MYRAL. It was her existence. She clung to any thought, held on to the last thread of her life. If she let go, the darkness would win.

He would win.

I won’t let him, she thought.

Laughter filtered through her nightmare. Was it her voice? Night enshrouded her in a tomb. It mocked her blindness, her inability to move.

Myral shut her eyes, or believed she did. There were images and voices, which belonged to her, but . . . I don’t know them. Nothing existed before the eternal night. She’d screamed at the darkness until her voice failed, unseen walls shuddering at the sound. Pain throbbed in her throat.

I will not give in. Seconds melded with hours and hours with years, which were no more than minutes. I’m entombed alive. Am I alive? Was this her end, embalmed in darkness? If so, it was a fitting one for all the death she had delivered.

She ignored the screams. Perhaps they were her echoes. Lying on the damp stone, Myral wondered if there were others. What was this place? It is empty, devoid of life and time. Let me out, oh, please let me out.

A presence entered her tomb, and hidden eyes devoured her. Myral was naked, lashed to hard stone and bound with chains. She remembered heading home from the temple. Someone had grabbed her, and ... nothing. Her confusion and feeling of dislocation meant they’d drugged her.

The gaze lingered on her skin, passed over her breasts and face. It dove to consume the rest in passion, chilling her to the bone. Somehow, it could see her in the pitch-blackness.

A voice spoke. ‘The blindness takes longest to wear off. It would go better for you if you don’t resist. The process is smoother with acceptance . . . although, I do appreciate endurance. Still, enough is enough. You’ve made your point. You are strong. Why else did the Grim choose you as Sword?’

‘You know it had nothing to do with the bloody Grim,’ she managed to growl. ‘They chose me so they could use me.’ They’d known this would happen. If she survived, they would deem her worthy for she would have rid them of a dangerous enemy. What did he want from her, though? Why was she alive? Seth sought power. Why not kill her?

‘So beautiful,’ he said with a sigh. ‘If I must break you, I will. It would be best if you relax. Let the night devour you.’ The priest’s presence was near and haunting. ‘I could slit your throat and be done,’ he added as though sensing her confusion, ‘but I would rather own you. Killing has its pleasure, but owning you for the remainder of your life would be ecstasy.’

‘The highests will see you dead for this.’

‘Well, of course. Did they not command you to end my life? Well, perhaps not in so many words, but I’m certain they would have implied their desire. Well, Myral, why not try it? See what happens?’

‘I will not fear you.’

‘Did you think no one knew who you were?’

A lump lodged in her throat. Oh, the Spectrum above spare me, he knows everything.

‘You are the weapon I will use to destroy the highests. All of them. Your sudden rise has come at the perfect time. You will continue to do as they instruct, until I say otherwise.’

‘I will not.’

‘Ah, but you see, you won’t refuse because if you do, I won’t kill you. I will simply expose you. Think about all those hours of excruciating torture you will endure at their hands. They will prolong your suffering for as long as they can. Nothing I will do to you could come close. Treachery is the most heinous of crimes within the Faith, Myral. Torture may be forbidden, but you and I both know it is a fallacy.’

She felt a hand stroke her thigh, and the caress, which from another man might’ve inspired warmth, had her writhing. The hand rose higher. ‘What I offer you is mercy. Will you accept my instruction?’

Her thoughts fought the remnants of the drug, searching for a way out. Seeing none.

‘I’m going to teach you to dream,’ he cooed. ‘Relax. I know you are strong and this is another reason you live. I need strength in my followers, although not too strong. First, you must be broken. You will then accompany me and do exactly as I command.’

She felt a weight descend as he straddled her. Cold fingers stroked her skin. Hot stinking breath washed over her face, and she fought back a shriek.

‘Shush now,’ he whispered, placing his hands about her neck. ‘You’re tired of fighting. You’ve served the Grim well in your own way. He doesn’t care about motives and neither do I. Everything they’ve told you is corrupt, a lie. I will show you the true Faith.’

‘Please,’ she pleaded, knowing it was useless.

‘There is no reason you should not enjoy this. There is pleasure in pain, if you could but see it. The highests would have you believe the Grim forbids pleasure. The opposite is true. He bids us take it, as much as we desire.’

Seth’s fingers squeezed her throat as he forced her legs apart with his own. Her mind grew heavy. His voice dragged her down into a world of nightmare. With her mind, she reached out, questing with the power within her. The drug made it difficult, but she managed to touch her magic. A power she had known since girlhood, and had hidden from almost everyone. She found a pigeon outside, scratching the bare earth for food. Birds were the easiest to manipulate. She’d filled many a bird or rat or other creature with memories she didn’t want, corrupting them. This time, she wouldn’t just pass on parts of her mind. A pity the pigeon would have to die, but there was always a price.

As Seth ravaged her flesh, Myral abandoned her body. She found relief in a cool alleyway in the heart of ancient Valtar. She spread her wings and took to the skies.