Choice of the Fallen

By Kenneth McDonald

In Book 2 of The Godswar trilogy, the Compact that separates mortal reality from the realm of the gods is weakening. The gods’ chosen agents are scattered and vulnerable, and even as they begin to unravel the details of the evil god Hailidel’s plans, his forces are already moving to strike. Clouds of war gather over the Rorean continent, and while the western nations dither, civil war spreads in Roron, and an invasion of barbarian kobalos has already begun in the east. Dannil Leyden, Robert Small, and Ahlen Corander must each fight their own battles in the war between the gods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth McDonald
• Release date: Feb 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465955845

Kenneth McDonald

I am a retired education consultant who worked for state government in the area of curriculum. I have also taught American and world history at a number of colleges and universities in California, Georgia, and South Carolina. I started writing fiction in graduate school and never stopped. In 2010 I self-published the novella "The Labyrinth," which has had over 100,000 downloads. Since then, I have published more than fifty fantasy and science fiction books on Smashwords. My doctorate is in European history, and I live with my wife in northern California.

Book preview

Prologue

Niedra materialized in a dismal stone chamber.

The place had a look to it that suggested great age. The walls and floor were huge stone blocks, fitted together with great precision; the ceiling was invisible in the darkness high above. Light was provided by torches that burned smokily in sconces along the walls. Four great pillars stood at the cardinal directions, each one almost as thick through as she was tall, carved with figures that had been worn down by time until they were unrecognizable.

The goddess took in her surroundings and let out a small snort.

The only obvious exit was a broad staircase that ascended between the two far pillars. Niedra walked up the steps, her slippered feet making no sound on the bare stone. More torches at periodic intervals provided a fitful illumination. After a short while she looked up to see that the stairs continued on for as far as she could see. Frowning, the goddess applied her will.

Resuming her ascent, Niedra climbed five more steps and ended upon a broad landing. There was a black arch opposite, a dark and menacing opening that was warded by two armored titans. Each stood more than twice her height, and was clad in heavy plate that covered them from boot to helm in layered iron. They bore huge swords, the bare steel perfectly still and vertical despite the burden of their obvious weight.

Niedra regarded them for a moment. She took a step forward. The guardians shifted to block the way.

Her patience exhausted, Niedra lifted one hand and formed it into a fist. The guardian on the left collapsed in upon itself, its armored body crumpling as if it were a bug inside the goddess’s hand. A terrible sound of abused metal rose from it, but it made no other sound before it fell to the floor in a heap, reduced to a small fraction of its original size.

The other guardian stepped forward toward her, lifting its sword in both hands. Niedra made no move to evade, but as it started to lunge, she made a slight gesture with her other hand. The armored soldier went flying down the steps, propelled with such velocity that a good two seconds passed before the sound of it striking the stone rose up from below.

Shaking her head, the goddess moved forward. The arch swallowed her up in darkness, but she had no difficulty finding her way. The transition was subtle, but after a short time she could see the tunnel brighten ahead, and she continued to find herself on a balcony that overlooked a vast chamber. The style was similar to the foyer where she’d just arrived, but with a more object grandiosity, and an even more dismal feel. The pillars here formed long rows along the edges of the chamber, like columns of soldiers on the march. The ceiling was visible as a long oval dome, covered in faded mosaics that were cracked and gaping in places. The air was stale, with just a hint of decay.

A small staircase offered access to the floor of the great hall, about fifteen feet below. She made her way down and walked across the chamber. As she passed between the closer row of pillars she could see her destination, and those she had come to meet.

You know, you shouldn’t take all these trappings of Reality so seriously, she said, as she walked up to them. You may end up deceiving yourselves.

The two gods waiting regarded her silently. Hailidel sat in a great chair that could only be called a throne, an impressive stone monstrosity ornamented with broad wings and arms formed out of huge bones. The Dread God was clad in armor of black and blood red, and wore a helm that concealed the contours of his face in deep shadow. The throne sat atop a single-step dais and overlooked a depression in the floor. As she drew nearer Niedra could see that the depression held an odd table; no, a map, she realized. Its base was a hemisphere that she recognized as a globe of the world of Reality, detailed down to the faint wisps of cloud that covered the landscape of blue seas and brown continents. The top of the globe had been flattened, almost as though someone had squished it with a massive hammer, and on that spread expanse was a topographical depiction of a select portion of that world. Niedra looked down at the depiction of the Rorean continent, and the nations that spread across it. She could see that tiny figurines had been placed on various places of the map, carvings that looked so detailed and accurate that she would not have been surprised to see them start to move.

A very impressive toy, she said. Did you steal it from Barsis?

She heard a low growl between two of the pillars to her left, and turned to regard Turquos.

The god’s appearance was ferocious, monstrous. Shaped like a man, he was in all other ways something utterly different. Naked, his body was covered in gray-green scales, slick with something that glistened in the torchlight. His hands and feet were webbed and equipped with curving black talons. The long slits of gills were visible on either side of his thick neck, flaring slightly with each breath that filled his huge, barrel-shaped chest. His head was worst of all, somehow humanoid and reptilian and insectoid all at once, or combining the worst of each. Dozens of pale teeth in layered rows were visible as he worked his jaws, and while there was intelligence in those bulbous eyes, there was something darker there as well.

Niedra’s own eyes gleamed as she walked slowly toward the gruesome hulk. Ah, so that explains what you’ve been up to, she said to him. Interesting. She moved sinuously around him, the strips of fabric she wore clinging to her body, where they didn’t slide carelessly free to reveal pale, perfect skin underneath. Coming around in front of him again, she casually slid a finger along the murky skin of his hip, up the now-bulging organ that pressed up into his gut like a spear. Fooling yourselves, indeed, she said, with a laugh as she turned away.

Turquos let out a harsh sound and took a step toward her, before the figure seated at the throne raised a hand.

Enough, Niedra, Hailidel said. I did not bring you here to play games.

The goddess turned to face him. But we have all our pieces in place, and our opponents do not even understand the rules yet.

If you underestimate our brothers and sisters, then you are a fool, little schemer.

Niedra’s gaze was as sharp as a dagger, as her eyes narrowed. And yet it was I who brought news of their plans, and revealed the identity of their Chosen to this conclave, she returned. Not to mention that it was my minions, my servants, who allowed you to place your plans into motion.

For which you will be rewarded, when we recover what we once were.

Niedra walked up to the edge of the globe-table, and ran a hand along its edge as she paced around it. She never took her eyes off of Hailidel. I admit, brother, I am surprised by you. I never thought you were capable of this level of... subtlety. And given how much you are extending yourself into the world of Reality, I would have thought you... diminished, by now. You know that your brother-rival, the Bright God, has done the same? He has reduced himself almost to oblivion, from the cost of it.

Hailidel did not respond, but Niedra could see that the mention of Merikkose had stirred him. His eyes, deep within the cavern of his helm, were a warning, but Niedra had long been a student of her peers, and she knew—thought she knew—how far she could push. You are strong, brother, stronger than I thought possible. You have hidden it from our fellows, but I can see. Where does that strength come from, and what are you going to do with it?

You wish to know? Hailidel asked.

"I cannot serve you, serve... us, if I am not fully informed," she purred.

Very well. He glanced aside at Turquos, who had not shifted from his position, then focused his attention back upon Niedra. Communion.

Niedra flinched back, only so slightly, but before the intensity of Hailidel’s stare, there was no maneuver, no retreat. Oh, all right, she said, with a sigh.

The connection was instantaneous; measurements of time and duration meant little to the Nine. Its effect was likewise immediate, as Niedra, released, staggered back, reaching out to steady herself on the edge of the globe-table. She stared down at the panorama depicted there for a long moment, gathering herself, before she turned her head to stare up again at Hailidel.

"You... you can’t..."

I can, and I will. Nothing will deny me, do you understand me, sister?

His gaze holding her like a crushing fist, she could only nod.

Go, then. Prepare your agents. Events will move swiftly in the other realm, and when they do, we must be prepared to act. As you yourself said, our pieces are in place... soon the game, the final game, will begin.

Niedra drew back, gathering her equanimity as she retreated, although the way she glanced back over her shoulder spoiled some of it as she returned again through the pillars, to the stairs leading out.

The two gods waited there until she was fully gone. She will betray you, Turquos said, the first words he had contributed to the meeting.

Yes. It is her nature. The Battle God rose up out of his chair, the metal he wore creaking slightly as he moved. He stepped forward three steps, until he loomed over the map table. There were no torches directly behind him, yet somehow still his shadow seemed to extend out over the nations that were depicted on that artificial landscape. By what we are, what we were made to be, we three are destined to fail, programmed to turn on each other, to revert to the chaos that is a part of us. His hands tightened into fists as he stared at the table, and the air above it seemed to waver slightly, as though from a great heat. But we can rise above our Creator’s mandate, he added, softly, almost to himself. We can become more than what we are, and regain what we were.

The mortals will resist the ending of their Reality.

Hailidel’s lips twisted into a smile. Yes. They will struggle, and in doing so, they will bring about the very end that they fear.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

The sun rose on Kemara to reveal a scene of utter devastation.

The town itself was mostly intact, although there were a number of ugly black splotches visible on the wall surrounding the place, and one of its watch towers was a blasted wreckage, wisps of smoke still rising from the charred beams that were all that remained. Armed men kept vigilant watch on the ramparts, huddling low behind the stubby crenellations that marched in a row like stone teeth atop the wall.

But while the town had escaped largely unscathed, the same could not be said for the complex that dominated the low rise just west of the town.

The place was nearly as large as the town itself, having grown over the decades until it threatened to spill out over the crest of the hilltop onto the plains below. Twenty buildings had stood within the wall that protected the complex; several of those had been reduced to burned-out wrecks over the course of the night, and one continued to smolder, the bright flames stirring in the remnants a cruel echo to the glow of the sun growing more distinct over the horizon.

Bodies were visible everywhere. There were only a few near the main gate, which looked to have been blasted off its hinges, the once-sturdy wooden beams shattered like kindling. Some of the dead guards lying in the dirt still had their swords in their scabbards. More bodies made a trail across the courtyard, lying upon the neatly-manicured lawns of short grass or on the cobblestone paths that connected the once-pristine buildings. Most were human, but scattered among them were the corpses of those who had committed this atrocity, men who resembled humans until one took a good look at their faces, at the distinct clues that identified their racial heritage.

Kobalos.

Most of the bodies within the complex were located in two clusters. The smaller of the two were gathered near the front entrance of the largest building within the walls. The defenders, caught by surprise, had made their stand there, and the twenty men and women were surrounded by half-again their number of kobalos. But their bravery had not done more than slow the inevitable; the front doors of the building swung loosely on shattered hinges, and bloody bootprints stained the marble tiles that led inside.

The largest group had been caught in the rear of the complex, near an almost-invisible sally port in the rear wall. Most of the people who had attempted to flee by this route had been unarmed, and many wore bandages that were now stained by fresh plumes of red. They had been accompanied by over a dozen men and women whose blue robes were now soaked in blood and dirt. It was clear that the kobalos had been waiting here in ambush, but oddly enough there were almost as many of them lying motionless in the dirt as their unarmed victims; most appeared to have turned suddenly on each other, their bodies cloven by the crude but effective axes and swords of beaten iron that the mountain tribes used.

Nothing stirred within the complex, but there was activity inside the town as the first rays of sunshine extended out over the walls. The front gate of the town creaked slowly open, revealing a knot of armed and armored soldiers who moved tentatively out onto the road, covered by archers on the wall above them. They spent several minutes probing out along the road, searching the obvious hiding places where attackers could lie in wait behind rocks or within clumps of brush, before pushing forward toward the hilltop.

The Seer watched them from atop another hill further back, a vantage that gave him a clear view of the entire scene. At one time there had been a watchtower here, but it had been left to decay centuries ago, and now only a stunted ruin of stacked stone blocks remained, hollow and empty save for tangles of weeds and brush. It did break up the line of the crest, however, and with it behind him he could watch with almost no chance of being discovered or disturbed.

He snorted as the soldiers—little more than militia, really—made their way cautiously forward. The token force he’d assigned to keeping the people of Kemara bottled up inside the town was long gone, although they might have left a trap or two behind to keep the defenders wary. They were almost at the gate of the hilltop complex now, but they would find only death there.

He turned as he heard the sounds of men ascending the flank of the hill behind him. Rising slowly, so as not to draw watching eyes with sudden motion, he withdrew behind the shelter of the ruined tower. Several of his kobalos were there, big men, as deadly as the weapons they carried. To the Seer they were all just weapons, tools to be expended as necessary for the completion of his mission.

The party of four kobalos that reached the ascent averted their eyes from his. One was carrying a burden in a canvas sack that stank of death.

Well? the Seer asked.

The kobalos withdrew his prize from the sack, and held it up for the Seer to view, his thick fingers knotted in the dead man’s hair.

The head was in decent shape; his soldiers had been ordered to leave the face intact for confirmation. In the bright haze of morning it was easy to identify the features, which matched precisely the description he had been given.

Master Healer Kiros, he said to himself. To the kobalos, he ordered, Bury it where it will not be found. He gestured to the leader of his escort, who stepped forward. Detail five men to escort the wounded and the prize wagons east. He didn’t have to elaborate; the kobalos soldier was smart enough to grasp the implications, and also smart enough not to question the Seer’s orders. Gather the others, we will be riding north.

The kobalos saluted, and hurried back down the hill to put his orders into effect. The Seer was left alone atop the hill. He cast his eyes eastward, toward the brilliance of the rising sun. Kobalos had sensitive eyes, and the light caused him some discomfort, but he merely stared, and smiled.

* * * * *

Chapter 2

Winter had come to the kingdom of Rigal, but in the most populous and prosperous of the nations of the north, the season did not bring with it an excess of privation. Cold winds blew, and storms swept down from the ocean to rake the land with rain and sleet, but most of Rigal’s people could find shelter in warm, well-built homes, and could rely on larders and pantries that were generously stocked with food. Families spent the enforced time indoors in various activities, which included planning for the coming spring, and the time of bounty that would come.

Paved roads radiated out from the capitol at Sindaron, where upwards of three hundred thousand souls dwelt within the city’s layered walls. Along those roads were towns and villages, surrounded by a patchwork of fields, pastures, mines, and other indications of humanity’s mark upon the land. The settlements grew sparser the further out one got; westward into the rough hill country that culminated in the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Ehdor, eastward into the wild lands that separated Rigal from the kingdom of the Ilfann, the forest realm of Maletai. Or south, where the broad, dry expanse of the Thalmoth Plain blended into the borderlands, a territory that had been watered with the blood of generations of men in the periodic wars between Rigal and its historic rival, the grim land of Roron.

But memories of those times had largely faded, and the Dark War had left Roron sundered and broken, little threat now. Roron was a shadow of what it once had been, and while there were many still within its lands who bore a deep hatred of their northern neighbor, there was little they could do about it. Rigal was surrounded by friends, with official alliances in place with the Duke of Ehdor and the Jaristos of Crista, and cordial relations with the guildmasters of Queshtar and the hierarchs of Thorin. Rigal’s legions had not marched to war in generations, but they were still potent, with no rivals upon the continent that could truly threaten their might.

The Catellian Valley saw little of armies, or wars, or great lords. On a map it was situated almost in the center of the lands claimed by the Rigalian monarch, northeast of the Thalmoth Plain, ringed by steep hills that marked the furthest extension of the Dragonspire Peaks. Despite its position the Catellian was well off the beaten path; the surrounding hills were rugged and difficult to travel, and there was only one major road, a sinuous track that wound between the hills like a snake. From that road, however, one could eventually reach one of the trade ways, unpaved this far south of Sindaron, but busy with traffic between the more populated northern territories of Rigal and outlying baronies such as Adelmar and Limbrock. The valley was defensible, but there wasn’t much there that anyone would want, wooded dells and scattered farmsteads and a dozen or so villages that collectively housed maybe two thousand people in all.

The largest of those villages was Yahrine, a pleasant little collection of maybe forty buildings situated near the mouth of the valley, astride the hill road. Yahrine was surrounded by fields that were now mostly fallow against the winter, although there were a few plots still planted with winter crops, cabbages and turnips and other vegetables that had a chance of surviving the coming cold.

There was little reason for anyone to want to visit Yahrine, or the even more isolated villages scattered deeper throughout the valley, and especially not in winter. Yet somehow the small community was crowded with people. The village did not have a defensive wall, and a series of all-weather tents had been erected on the sward of trampled-down grass along its southern edge. Riders arrived and departed at regular intervals, some alone, others in small groups. All were in an apparent hurry. Wagons arrived with less frequency but at a pace that was still unusual, and almost a dozen were lined up behind the long building that served as a combination inn and general store. It had rained recently, and everything, roads, buildings, wagons, animals, and men, were all covered in gray mud. Dark clouds promised another storm before too long, but despite the inclement weather a crew of almost three dozen men were occupied in erecting a building, a large structure that looked like it would be a meeting hall when finished. The frame was already up, and men were now fitting boards to form walls, even as others sawed logs alongside to make more.

The building next to the site of the new hall had been one of Yahrine’s largest, although it looked almost quaintly diminutive in comparison to its latest neighbor. Two men stood near the sole entrance in front, clad plainly in fur and leather. Their apparently casual demeanor was belied by the way they observed every detail of the scene with hard, experienced eyes, or maybe it was the swords they wore at their hips, the hilts never far from their hands.

The house had a single small window in the wall that faced the building site. Ahlen Corander stood at that window, watching the ongoing construction from inside. The man who had until recently been the nominal head of the most powerful religious organization on the continent let out a small sigh, too quiet to be heard by the others in the room with him. Blanking his features behind a wall of discipline, he turned and forced a smile at his guests.

I am sure that we will be able to address any difficulties, Tamrin Shah, he said. But as you can see, there will be ample business opportunities here for a man with your... connections.

The Queshtaran merchant inclined his head slightly. The two men behind him represented rival trading houses, but it appeared that they had agreed to present a united front here; Shah had done most of the talking thus far. We do not seek to offend the hierarchs of your church, he said. I mean no affront, sir, but your reputation is... well, there are those in Sindaron who do not much like you.

The Primus was the victim of a conspiracy, Bendaran said. The old priest looked as though he would say more, but Ahlen lifted his hand slightly, and cut off his friend with a slight shake of his head.

Ahlen managed a laugh. That is an understatement, I fear, master Shah. But what is done, is done. I am finished with the capitol, and it with me. Now I am just a private citizen, attending to matters of private concern.

For a man with no proclaimed ambition, you have attracted many others to your banner in such a short span of time.

Ahlen smiled, but inside, he was thinking much the same thing. When he’d first begun his exile, he’d had little idea of where he would go, or what he would do. He’d been left almost utterly alone by the bishops’ edict, with just a few close friends willing to accompany him on his forced journey south. Others had offered, but he’d turned them down; after his own secretary had betrayed him before the Conclave of Inquisition, he did not want to be second-guessing which of his people were spies.

There had been no question about whether to continue his mission, of course; the message brought by the Avatar had not been entirely clear, but that it was a mandate directly from the mind of his god he had no doubt whatsoever. That directive had brought him low, had cost him his title, his position, and his influence, but his only regrets were that he had so terribly bungled his charge from Merikkose. He had wondered often what had become of Ticos Gewehr, the knight he had sent south to investigate events in Roron. He had heard nothing, and with each passing day he feared that he had added another mistake to his tally.

He had chosen Yahrine because of its location, far from Sindaron yet not so far that he was out of reach of the rest of the world. And because he had spent time here before, knew its people. When he had been a bishop, and during his first two years as Primus, he had conducted an annual expedition, two weeks spent living among the people in a village much like this one, far from the marble temples and paved streets and stone buildings of Rigal’s towns and cities. It had been twenty years since he’d spent those weeks here in the Catellian, but he had been struck by the simple but hardy nature of its people, men and women who had chosen a life here off the beaten track, far from the world that he had left behind in Sindaron.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he responded to the merchant. I am my own man, he told them. Some have chosen to join me. There are things that I need, things that are simple enough for men with your resources to provide.

Some things are more simple than others, one of the other merchants said. Weapons, for instance, are rarely simple.

Yet you provide arms to half of the northern Roronian barons, Bendaran said. That seems simple enough for you.

Roron is not Rigal, the merchant replied easily, refusing to be riled. Bendaran’s expression darkened, but Ahlen again interjected before the other priest could stir the pot further.

Gentlemen. I am not interested in starting a revolution. You’ve seen what I have here, does this look like a military camp?

Shah smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. I am not entirely sure what you have here. But you understand our reluctance. Trade is more than simple supply and demand, after all. There is also risk to consider.

Of course, Ahlen said. But some of our scriptures note that it is the greatest risk which brings with it the greatest reward.

Our sacred writings contain similar sentiments, Shah replied. What is it you seek, then? Trade goods? Foodstuffs? Tools? Queshtar is a good deal further off than the cities of your own country.

Some things are less tangible but no less valuable for it, Ahlen said.

Indeed, indeed, Shah said.

He opened his mouth to respond to the merchant, but was interrupted by the sound of the door opening to his right. He glanced over to see Melion step into the room. Melion had been among the first to come to him, a knight young enough to be swayed by idealism, yet just old enough to be useful. He had obviously taken Ahlen’s deposition as something of a personal betrayal, enough to have motivated him to spend a week on the road riding to the Catellian. At their first meeting the younger man had been accusatory, almost insulting, but he had listened to the former Primus, and had stayed. Since then he had become Ahlen’s right hand, handling many of the details that the fallen priest had been too busy to attend to himself. Ahlen knew him well enough now to see that something was very wrong, although he tried to keep it hidden for the sake of their outland guests.

Shah and the other two merchants gave him a quick but weighing look; they weren’t fooled. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, Ahlen said.

Of course, of course, Shah said. We will think on your words and draw up a proposal. Ahlen nodded to the guard who escorted the three out, and waited until the door had shut before he turned to Melion. What is the matter?

There is a large column of church soldiers making its way through the hills, the young knight reported. A bishop is leading them, but our scouts could not make out which one.

Mican, I would guess, Ahlen said. He let out the sigh he had repressed earlier. Well. I suppose I had better see what he wants.

But... Primus... Bendaran said.

Ahlen placed a hand on the other man’s arm. No longer that, my friend.

Bendaran shook his head. Title or not, you are the chosen of our god. You can’t let what you’ve begun here be ended.

I agree, sir, Melion said. I’ve prepared a horse, and guides to sneak you out through the hills. If you leave now, they need never know you that you were even here.

If you think that Mican and his cabal don’t have eyes here, you’re a fool, Bendaran said. Anger flashed on Melion’s face, and Ahlen again had to intervene before an argument was stirred.

No, he said, calmly but firmly. No, I am not running. I have not done anything wrong.

That did not stop them from ruining you before, Bendaran said.

You think me ruined, then?

A look of frustration crossed the other man’s face. No, that is not what I mean, I’m sorry, Primus. But this is too important...

It is, and that is why you know everything that I know. Both of you do, he added, including Melion. He took each of them by the arm, and led them toward the door. What we do here must continue. Thus far we have only been gathering information, making plans. The time will come when action is needed. Rigal must be ready for what is to come. Come then, Melion, help me with my coat. Let us prepare to meet our guests.

They did not dally, but barely half an hour passed before the column emerged from the hills, moving in double line, the formation trailing back a good distance along the road. There were sixty of them in all, soldiers clad in the livery of the church, well armed and armored. At their head rode a bishop resplendent in full finery, ceremonial attire that seemed incongruous against the background of the hills and mud.

Ahlen recognized him. The former Primus had ridden down from the village to greet the newcomers, accompanied only by Melion and Bendaran. Melion had tried to convince Ahlen to allow a greater escort; most of the men who had come to Yahrine had brought weapons, and knew how to use them; more than a few had armor and uniforms in their personal stores, including some that was identical to that worn by the approaching soldiers. But Ahlen had refused, and now the men watched from the village, wary.

The column approached to almost on top of the three men waiting alongside the road before the bishop raised his hand to call a halt. His expression was as cold as the wind that whipped down out of the hills.

Bishop Ispin, Ahlen said. I would have guessed Mican, or Prathis, perhaps.

Bishop Mican is a busy man, Ispin said. He made a gesture, and some of the men from the column rode out to form a ring around the three. Melion growled, but Ahlen silenced him with a small gesture. What brings you all the way out here, Bishop? he asked.

You know well why, you blackguard, Ispin snarled. It was not enough that you violated your oaths and brought shame to your office, now you engage in treason!

Bendaran spit out an oath, but Ahlen overrode him. It was easier to be calm, he mused, when surrounded by such excitable companions. What are you talking about? I have complied to the letter of the dictum of the Conclave. He indicated their bleak surroundings with a wave of his hand. I am well beyond the boundary that they set. One week from Sindaron, was it not? How long did it take you to get here?

You were ordered to go quietly, to disappear, Ispin hissed. Instead you’ve been quite the busy bee. Sending letters, riders coming and going, gathering allies...

I wasn’t aware that I was to be forbidden all contact with the outside world.

Do not try to fence words with me, traitor!

Do you even know what you are doing, you foolish lickspittle? Bendaran said. You defy the will of the god himself!

Ispin’s expression was one of barely-controlled fury, but he shook his head. It amazes me that you are still able to attract such with your lies, he said to Ahlen, ignoring the other priest. Enough of this bantering. I do not wish to stay in this dreary place for one minute longer than is necessary. You will come with me. You, and the ringleaders of your little enterprise.

Where would you take me?

That is not your concern. All that you need to do is comply.

I have but to raise my hand, and you will not leave this valley alive, Melion said, quietly.

You would dare threaten a consecrated bishop, boy? Look around you, if you do not grasp the reality of your situation!

I think that we are all better served by avoiding threats, Ahlen said. I will accompany you, Bishop Ispin, he said. His companions started to protest, but he silenced them with a hard look. But I alone. None of these people here have committed any crime against the laws of Rigal, or the strictures of the church. If I must confront these charges of yours, I will do so, but I will not have others suffering on my behalf.

Don’t do this, Bendaran said, under his breath, while opposite him Melion added, At least let me accompany you, sir. I feel an ill sense of this...

Ahlen didn’t respond to either, he just fixed his eyes on Ispin. After a moment, the bishop nodded. Very well, I am not an unreasonable man. We will leave at once.

May I at least be permitted to gather some possessions? For the journey.

Of course. Templar Shevran, take a detail of men, and see that Corander has everything that he needs for the trip. Do see that he wants for nothing, nothing at all.

Sir, the soldier said. He and nine other men followed Ahlen back up to the village. Melion and Bendaran followed behind, but they had to hurry to keep up with the strong strides of the man they followed. The people of Yahrine watched silently, standing in the street or on the porches of their homes and businesses, accompanied by those who had followed the fallen Primus here. They watched as Ahlen walked into the building that had served as his headquarters, followed by his aides and several of the church soldiers. The others stood outside, looking a bit unnerved under the silent gazes of the gathered observers. No one had so much as coughed when Ahlen emerged a few minutes later, alone. There was an undercurrent of tension in the air that grew as his escort brought him back down through the village toward where Ispin and the rest of his troops waited. Grumblings began to stir through the crowd, and a few voices rose over that, offering challenges that had the soldiers reaching for the hilts of their swords. In turn hands reached down to grasp stones, and the situation teetered on the edge of bloody disaster. Even Ispin could sense it from his vantage, and he lifted a hand, ready to issue a command that would unleash chaos.

Then, suddenly, Ahlen stopped. The guards, intent on the crowd, didn’t notice at first, until he stepped back through them and faced the men and women gathered throughout the village.

Friends, he said. Accustomed to ceremonies within the huge cathedral in Sindaron, his voice carried easily throughout the entire village. Friends, I must depart from you now.

There was an angry stir through the crowd, but Ahlen only raised a hand, and silence returned. What we do here is bigger than any one man, he told them. You help me by continuing your work. Remember who you are, and who you represent. May the blessings of the god shine bright upon you all.

He turned and walked away. The guards fell in behind him, but something subtle had changed; it was almost as though they were an honor guard now, rather than his escorts. There were a few more calls from the crowd, but they were plaintive now, not violent. No one followed him down the hill.

From the rear of the crowd, Melion turned to Tamrin Shah, who had watched the entire scene unfold with his companions. Remember what you saw here today, he said, heading back into the headquarters building.

Ispin had a sour look on his face as Ahlen reached him. One of the soldiers brought forward a saddled horse. What was that all about? the bishop asked.

I was protecting those entrusted to me, Ahlen said. Is that not what we are supposed to do, Bishop?

They are no longer your concern. Templar, lead the column out!

Ahlen fell in amongst the column as it wheeled around and retraced its steps back down the road. How many days until we reach Sindaron? he asked Iskar.

Oh, we are not going to Sindaron, the bishop said. At the other man’s surprised look, he added smugly, Don’t worry, you will be well-treated; the council has no desire to see you harmed. You will be taken somewhere where will be safe, where you won’t be able to get into any more... trouble.

He laughed, and Ahlen looked away as the column made its way back along the road. Soon the village and the valley behind it had been swallowed up by the surrounding hills, and the former Primus did not look back as they made their way down the quiet and dusty road toward an uncertain future.

* * * * *

Chapter 3

Aelfric Wyndan, Abbot Primate of the monastic citadel of Tal Pirith, was up late.

The bare stone of the halls and chambers absorbed the soft pad of his bare feet as the Abbot made his way from his private rooms into the common areas of the monastery. The ancient fortress never truly slept, but this late the corridors were empty, and the faint flickers of the tiny lamps set into niches along the walls barely kept back the omnipresent darkness. The windows he passed offered glorious views of the surrounding Dragonspire Peaks, the white tips of the mountains bright in the starlight, but the Abbot paid them no heed. The shadows deepened around him as he made his way into a dark alcove and then down a steeply twisting spiral staircase, but he did not stop to unshutter the small silver lamp he held; every step, every stair was known to him. He had spent most of the last fifty years of life within the walls of Tal Pirith, and its halls held no menace for him, not even in the deep of night.

The Abbot descended several levels, passing the broad foyer on the ground floor without stopping, moving far more spryly than most would expect from a man who had just entered his eighty-fifth year of life. His predecessor had chosen health as his primary area of study, and Aelfric had modeled his life habits on the lessons that Eofrel had suggested in his various works. The past Primate had lived to the age of ninety-four, which itself was a strong advocacy for the validity of his methods, but for all his efforts to disseminate his accumulated knowledge among the people outside of Tal Pirith’s walls, there were few who had converted to its mandates of strict diet, frequent exercise, and vigorous preventative treatments to ward of disease. Aelfric’s lips twisted into