masterghandalf

Chapter 17: Divine Blood

“Damn!”

Len drew her sword as she watched ir’Sarrin’s men approach, letting her face slip back to her accustomed human disguise as she did so – the game was up anyway, and if she was going to die here, she would do it as herself, the person she had created and become. Flames rushed down the blade of her sword, and she raised it towards the enemy in challenge, a cold grin playing along her lips. Behind her, she could hear Ghazaan drop the pack he’d been carrying on his back and let it fall open; the team’s weapons, recovered from the guard room outside their cell, rolled out. Hurriedly, the others scrambled to reclaim what was theirs.

Taking her eyes for a moment from the approaching enemies, Len turned towards Yhani and shot her a smile; the elf priestess returned it, saluting with her scimitar. Neither of them had much in the way of magic at the moment – a night spent chained to wall was hardly conducive to the study or prayer they needed to replenish their spells – but they had their swords, their friends, and each other. That would have to be enough.

One of the approaching guards fell back behind the others and nocked an arrow to his bow; he let it fly over the heads of his companions, aiming directly for Len. Before it could strike, Havaktri waved her hand and it was knocked off course, thudding harmlessly into the trunk of a tree. “Is that the best you can do?” the kalashtar called in a sing-song voice; the archer scowled and prepared to shoot again, but before he could he stumbled back, one of Harsk’s arrows embedded in his chest. He stumbled and fell.

Then the other guards were upon them. Ghazaan roared a Goblin battle cry; not even bothering with his sword, he seized the nearest Karrn by the throat, lifted him up, and flung him headlong into two others, sending all three sprawling. Len and Yhani stood back-to-back, blades flashing as they parried incoming blows. Harsk and Havaktri had fallen back to the trees, keeping out of melee but using arrows and telekinetic abilities to harass the guards; Rinnean darted among the enemy with a long knife in either hand, too fast to hit but having already left two throats slit in his wake.

Yhani began to sing, then, a war-song in some extinct Elvish dialect whose eerie melody called to mind elven warriors hunting giants in the jungles of Xen’drik when the world was young; the guards seemed to hesitate at the sound, as if seized by some dread they couldn’t name. Len understood that feeling well; that song had made the hair on the back of her neck stand up the first time she’d heard it, and it would still if Yhani hadn’t explained to her what the lyrics meant. It was a song of freedom, of striking back against tyrants and oppressors, and hearing it now Len laughed and pressed her attack, forcing the guard she was dueling back. He was good, she had to admit, but she was better; her burning blade pierced his torso and he fell back, screaming.

Another guard stepped forward to take his place, taller and more heavily armed; he bore a huge mace in both hands. He swung it forward and Len danced lightly back; returning with a strike of her own, all she managed to do was score a burn mark along his breastplate. Scowling, she ducked and wove as he struck at her again; one blow from that mace would likely be the end of her. But he had to have a weakness; if she could just get her blade through his underarm, maybe that would do it…

But then the guard stumbled suddenly and fell on his face. An arrow was embedded in his neck, and Len was about to call out to Harsk in thanks until she noted its color. A silver arrow that seemed to gleam – Harsk didn’t use ones that looked like that; Len couldn’t think of anyone who did, except maybe…

“For the Flame!” a loud voice called, and an armored figure changed into the melee, bright sword swinging. One of ir’Sarrin’s men fell before him, head sliced cleanly from his shoulders. The mercenaries seemed emboldened by the coming of this unexpected aid; the guards, now down to half their strength, clustered tightly around each other, facing their foes with weapons out. Len could barely hear a hurried conversation among them, and then they turned and fled back towards the fortress.

Len turned towards the knight who had come to their aid; as she suepcted, it was Pitar. “Well,” she said, “I’m a bit surprised that you’d help us, but I won’t say I don’t appreciate it.” Sheathing her sword, she held out her hand; the paladin took it. “Good timing.”

“Don’t thank me too much,” Pitar said, looking down at the guards’ bodies. “There’s not much honor in fighting the living, knowing they’re people just like you. Give me undead or demons to face any day.”

“That wish just might come true before we’re through,” Valyria said, walking out of the trees with a bow in one hand; the silver arrow must have been hers, Len thought. “Besides, I doubt these men were innocent – do you think they worked for ir’Sarrin without realizing what he was? When he passed us on the road he had a Blood of Vol priest with him and skeleton warriors. If he’s not at least an Emerald Claw sympathizer, I’ll eat my cloak.”

She regarded each of the mercenaries in turn with a cool, level stare. “Now that I’ve helped you out of a tight spot,” she said, “I think I’m owed some answers. Let’s start with an easy one – where is Thyra?”

///

Thyra rode down the forested path with her head low, shadowed by her hood. The skeleton warrior strode beside her, keeping pace with the tireless vigor of the undead, and she could feel it’s empty gaze upon her… and the more alive, but equally cold gaze of its creator. Irinali hadn’t spoken to anyone since they’d left the fortress, but the elf necromancer had the calculatedly watchful air of someone who was carefully aware of everything going on around them. Thyra wasn’t planning to escape – for the moment, ir’Sarrin’s people were taking her right where she wanted to go – but she had a feeling that any later attempt to claim whatever artifact was in the vault would fail unless Irinali’s attention was diverted.

A shadow fell over her and she realized that ir’Sarrin’ horse was now keeping pace with her own. “Would you mind talking with me for a little while?” the warlord asked; his tone was casual, but Thyra had a feeling that this wasn’t a request she could refuse.

“I think I’m hardly in a position to say no,” she said. “What do you want?”

“True enough,” ir’Sarrin admitted. “You may correct me if I’m wrong, but I would assume that you are a Flameite, like your sister. How much do you know about the Blood of Vol?”

“Not much,” Thyra admitted. “Not many people in Thrane follow your religion. I know you worship the undead, but that’s about it.”

Ir’Sarrin waved his free hand dismissively. “A common misconception,” he said, unwittingly echoing Yhani’s earlier words. “Those of the undead who retain their intelligence and free will – their souls, if you will – are worthy of honor and respect, but we do not worship them. Rather, we see them as a stepping stone to something greater.”

The warlord regarded Thyra with shrewd eyes. “Our two faiths have many differences – I don’t think anyone can deny that. Personally, I find your Church to be narrow-minded and dogmatic, and you plainly know little of my creed. But we do have common ground. We both, for instance, emphasize the importance of the mortal spirit over subjecting ourselves to the dominion of the uncaring gods.”

Thyra shrugged. “I never thought of it that way, but I don’t think that’s wrong. The Flame is a force for good, but it can’t act unless people champion it’s cause, like Thyra Miron. It’s not a god, more of… something that inspires us to be better than ourselves.”

“Well put,” said ir’Sarrin. “I too believe in something that inspires me to better myself, but not the Silver Flame. The Blood of Vol is an old religion, and its history goes back to the elves when they first settled on Aerenal.” He looked over at Irinali, who rolled her eyes. “My associate could tell the story better, but she has little patience for her people’s histories and less for religion, so we won’t force her to. In short, after their long wars with the giants and dragons, the elves sought a means to preserve their people past death. One group focused on preserving their ancestors through worship, and thus began the Undying Court. Others sought to channel the spirits of their ancestors directly. The third group sought to defeat death itself. In the end there was a war, and the followers of the third group were destroyed – save for the last daughter of the House of Vol, who escaped into lichdom when her family was slaughtered. She kept their ideas preserved, and in time taught them to humans. We call ourselves the Blood of Vol to honor her.

“You see, blood is the divine spark that gives all things life. The gods, if they exist at all, are either cruel or criminally negligent, seeding our world with pain and death. But we believe that it is possible to rise above, to channel our own divine sparks and transcend mortality, to cast out death and make this world a paradise. The undead are one step on this journey, but they are not the end.” He regarded Thyra intently. “You of the Church seek to cast out evil in much a similar way, I believe. Perhaps we’re not so different after all.

“I was never much of a religious man in my youth – my wife was the devout one.” His gaze took a distant quality. “She died, a long time ago. The rest of my family did too; I am the last to carry the ir’Sarrin name, and there will be no others after me. My parents, my siblings and cousins, even my son and daughter – they all died in the War. My wife went last, to an assassin’s poison. This is common knowledge, no deep secret. I was desperate, maddened by grief, determined to find out why I had been spared when all those I loved had not. I turned to her books, and there I found my calling – my purpose. A way to make all the lives of ir’Sarrin matter.” He looked back at Thyra and there was a fanatic gleam in his eyes; she realized that he had meant every word. This was a man for whom there was nothing left but his religion and his country, and that frightened her far more than if he’d been a heartless monster. Then his gaze softened. “You remind me of my daughter, a bit,” he said softly. “She was training as a wizard. She was about your age, when…” his voice trailed off.

“Why are you telling me this?” Thyra said when she finally found her voice.

“Because,” ir’Sarrin said, “if what you’ve told me is true, then you have the blood of immortals in your veins, however diluted. I said that the divine spark is carried in the blood – in yours, it must be strong. If you are what you say you are, then perhaps you can be of use to me beyond merely opening a vault. Perhaps fate has led you to me for this purpose.”

“What are you saying,” Thyra asked, a sudden chill creeping up her spine.

“He’s saying, in his needlessly roundabout way,” Irinali said, “that there are people higher in our organization who’d be most interested in meeting you. One in particular, who has waited a very long time to awaken the divine spark but, alas, no longer has blood of her own.”

“Few know this, even among the faithful,” said ir’Sarrin, “but our first teacher, the last of the House of Vol, still exists. We of the Emerald Claw know better. We call her the Queen of Death, born of the mixed blood of elves and dragons, and she will lead us to glory.” He regarded Thyra with that steady, intense gaze. “She sees very few, but if you are what you claim, you might just be worth her time, especially if you are the key to giving her a weapon older even than she.”

His tone was mild, but Thyra heard the threat in it nonetheless. A new fear seized her heart; if she failed, she and Len’s company would die, but if she succeeded… then she’d be given over to this ancient lich. Maybe ir’Sarrin thought that was not so terrible a fate; Thyra didn’t share that opinion.

She managed to mumble a somewhat coherent response, but her thoughts were far away. Whatever happened, she knew now more than ever that she had to find some way to escape these people.

///

“Where is Thyra?”

Len began to walk down the road, gesturing for her team to follow her; she wanted to put as much distance between them and Sarrin as possible in case the warlord’s guards decided to come back for another round. Valyria kept pace with her. “Gone, I’m afraid,” the captain said. “Lord ir’Sarrin took her and a bunch of his people off towards the Mournland. They’re probably a ways ahead of us by now, and I’m not sure that the two of you want to be taking on that many.”

Pitar swore. “We saw them go by, remember?” he asked Valyria, who nodded with a cold expression. “Ir’Sarrin and a whole procession of his people went by a bit over and hour ago. Thyra must have been one of the ones in a cloak, and we missed her!”

“I knew he was hiding something,” Valyria said, shaking her head. “The rakshasa must have decided that ir’Sarrin would be a more useful tool than you, Captain. Frankly, I’m amazed it left you alive. Whatever it’s planning, though, I fear it nears completion.” She scowled. “The Mournland? Why there? I don’t like the sound of it.”

“Your sister,” Len said, emphasizing the relationship, “sold her services to ir’Sarrin to protect the rest of us. Apparently there’s some old vault or tomb out in what used to be Cyre and he thinks she can open it for him. We’re going to try and get her back before they get out there and ir’Sarrin finds a reason to kill her.”

Valyria pursed her lips. “I see that the rakshasa still has you under its sway. I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. You don’t seem like a bad person, but if you plan to help the fiend, you leave me no choice.” The inquisitor suddenly nocked an arrow to her bow and levelled it directly at Len’s heart. “Any sudden moves, and you die.”

Before anyone else could react, Yhani slipped behind Valyria and placed the edge of her scimitar against the human woman’s neck. “Shoot Len,” the priestess hissed, all evidence of the wise counselor or gentle lover gone from her voice – there was steel in her tone, and the timeless arrogance of Aerenal, “and you will not long outlive her. Choose wisely.”

Pitar drew his own sword, and the rest of the mercenaries tensed and faced him. Finally, Valyria sighed and lowered her bow. “It seems you have all been seduced,” she said. “Don’t you understand what sort of evil you are dealing with?”

“I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Havaktri said. “I would explain, but I think maybe you have a head so full of the Flame there isn’t any room for anything else.”

“Thyra says she’s not a rakshasa,” Len said, “and before you say anything, Havaktri scanned her mind and confirmed she wasn’t lying. She says she’s mostly human, with a little rakshasa blood from way back that makes her a sorcerer – and she’s trying to find a way to get rid of that. Getting the truth out of that kid is no mean feat, but I don’t think she’s evil – just desperate and confused.”

“What about Brother Nalin?” Pitar said carefully. “His notes regarding Thyra pointed towards possession, not a sorcerer’s diluted blood. And someone murdered the Brother.”

“I fear, my good inquisitor, that you are being used,” Yhani said, sheathing her scimitar. “Someone, and I do not know who, wants you and Thyra at each other’s throats. I believe that this person murdered Brother Nalin and framed Thyra for the crime. After all, there are many things in this world that can wear a face not their own.” She glanced pointedly at Len as she spoke.

“And what would the goal of such a deception be?” Valyria asked carefully.

“Who knows?” Ghazaan said. “Unless we run into whoever’s behind this, we don’t have a whole lot to go on. But I don’t think Thyra’s a murderer.”

“Her shock and grief when informed of Brother Nalin’s death felt very real,” Havaktri added.

Valyria scowled. “Fine, then. I have an inquisitor’s instinct for these things, and I think you’re telling the truth as you see it. But I still think you’re being deceived. Why did the rakshasa flee from me, if not fearing exposure? The real Thyra would have been more than willing to submit to judgment and prove her innocence.”

“Well maybe she was just worried you’d stick an arrow in her head first, to be on the safe side,” Ghazaan said. “The kid’s pretty terrified of what you two might do to her. Considering how stubborn you’re being, I don’t blame her.”

“Maybe there’s another reason Sister Valyria doesn’t want to admit what Thyra says is the truth,” Rinnean said, sauntering forward. “Bloodlines don’t come out of thin air, after all, and Thyra is her sister. Maybe Valyria just doesn’t want to admit that if there’s fiendish blood in Thyra’s veins, it’s in her too?”

Valyria recoiled as if she’d been struck, an expression of horror written across her face. Pitar put his hands on her shoulders to steady her, and the inquisitor regarded Rinnean with wide, shocked eyes. The elf merely smiled innocently.

“Was that really necessary?” Harsk asked, crossing his arms.

“What?” Rinnean said. “It’s true, and the look on her face was worth it. The uptight ones always come apart the easiest, if you hit them in the right place.”

“Len,” Yhani whispered, “we need to keep moving. Ir’Sarrin gets farther ahead with every moment we waste. What should we do?”

Len clenched her fists in frustration. “Aureon only knows. I don’t want to have to fight them, and if we leave them they’ll just follow us; we’re all going in the same direction.”

“I have a proposal,” Valyria said, voice shaking but getting firmer as she spoke. “We both have to go to the Mournland, it seems, and none of us want Thyra – or the rakshasa – left in ir’Sarrin’s hands. So I propose a truce. We travel together, and fight ir’Sarrin together. Then after…” she paused, “after, we will have to come to certain decisions.”

Len thought it over, grinding her teeth, and finally nodded. “Fine. You can come with us to rescue you sister, and maybe then you’ll come to your Six-damned senses and we can sort things out like reasonable people without any murder. From what I hear of the Mournland, we could use all the help we can get, anyway. But like you said, this is a truce. So long as you still think Thyra’s a demon, we’re not friends.”

“Understood,” Valyria said. The company turned together and began to make their way down the road, Len and the inquisitor watching each other warily from the corner of their eyes.

///

This is a pretty important chapter for getting everything in place! We get to see Len and her team in action rather more successfully this time, something that I wanted to make sure to show considering their attempt at a raid failed spectacularly – despite their earlier showing, these are skilled professionals. The team-up with Valyria and Pitar has been a while in the planning, but it’s definitely a tense alliance of convenience, not a lasting partnership – I wanted to make sure both sides were fully aware that they might well turn against each other once ir’Sarrin is defeated.

Speaking of ir’Sarrin, he got to deliver a lot of exposition this chapter, about himself and his religion. I deliberately wanted him to be a true believer, not just a hypocrite using religion as an excuse to pursue power, and there are several reasons why he dumped all this information on Thyra. For one, he considers himself an honorable man in his own way and thought he owed it to her to explain why he was going to turn her over to Erandis Vol, and also because, as a true believer, he genuinely thought (wrongly) that he might be able to sway her to his way of thinking. But as Thyra noticed, ir’Sarrin is an affable fanatic, but a fanatic nonetheless – he’s not someone you want to be on the wrong side of, even if he’s not malicious in ordinary conversation.

-MasterGhandalf