Martin Hengst - The Darkest Hour

“Wynn?” she said tentatively. Slowly, Tia realized that tentative wasn’t going to get the job done. She reached over and flipped the book closed, the binding barely missing the tip of the young man’s nose.

“Careful!” he hissed, jumping to his feet. He caressed the book with a tender touch. “You could have damaged the binding, or torn a page!”

Tia had reached her breaking point. She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “I’m going to damage YOUR binding if you don’t pay attention to me,” she said savagely.

Wynn blinked, obviously unaccustomed to such forcefulness. He nodded, his hand still lingering on the book protectively.

“Faxon said that you’d be the person to ask about a relic we’re looking for,” Tiadaria said without a hint of flattery. “We need to know what the relic might be and where it is.”

“If Master Indra,” Wynn began, drawing out both the title and the surname. “Wanted to know about a relic, why didn’t he come here and ask about it himself?”

“Because, Apprentice Wynn, he sent me to start the research before he got here.” Tiadaria stabbed her thumb at her own chest and glared at Wynn. He was probably four inches taller than she was, and she felt sort of ridiculous trying to intimidate him. If only she had her scimitars…

The use of his title appeared to partially deflate Wynn and he slumped back in the chair at the study table. He gently moved the mold book to one side and peered at her expectantly. They stared at each other for a few moments before he heaved a long, drawn out sigh.

“I can’t help you find anything if you don’t tell me what you’re looking for!”

“Then ask,” Tiadaria snapped. “I can’t read minds!”

Wynn shook his head, as if he was dealing with some eminently unreasonable creature incapable of intelligent thought. “What relic are you looking for?”

“I don’t know,” Tiadaria stammered. “We know the Xarundi are looking for it, and that there are rumors of it being buried in snow and ice.”

“That’s all? If you don’t know what you’re looking for, how do you expect me to find it?”

Tiadaria lost the last of her patience. “Faxon said you were the person to ask!” Her shout echoed across the labyrinthine library. “If I knew what I was looking for, I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

She turned on her heel and stomped off.

“You really shouldn’t yell in the library,” he called after her.

* * *

Zarfensis and Xenir were exhausted when they finally reentered the Warrens. The urgency they felt to return to the familiar caverns was only partly spurred by their enthusiasm for their mission. Though they’d never put the feeling into words, they both wanted to be away from the Deep Oracle and its grasping mind. Xenir had been very quiet on their return to the Warrens.

They had nearly reached Zarfensis’s warren when one of the adolescents came bounding up to the weary travelers.

“Your Holiness! Warleader! The pack council is demanding your presence, they’ve found out about the raiding parties you dispatched!” The youngster’s fur stood out in agitation, his lips pulled back to bare his still under-developed fangs. “There are rumors of execution, Your Holiness.”

Xenir grasped the youth by the shoulders and turned him to look directly into his eyes. “Do you believe in us? Do you believe in the omens that have been foretold?”

“Of course, Warleader! There are many who stand behind you, but the pack council-”

“I will deal with the pack council,” Zarfensis growled with unconcealed savagery. “Cowering in our caves like vermin is beneath us. We are the Chosen! Go and tell the loyal that we have spoken to the Deep Oracle and returned. Gather them in the cathedral.”

“As you command, Your Holiness.” With a half-bow, the young Xarundi bounded back down the corridor the way he had come.

“The pack council?” Xenir asked.

“You know what must be done, brother. Do you doubt the omens? Or what information the Deep Oracle provided?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

“Then have faith. Our dominion is preordained. The Chosen will possess the relic and we will usher in a new age of domination over the vermin.”

A knot of loyalists appeared in the tunnel, passing the High Priest and the Warleader on their way to the cathedral. Zarfensis returned their respectful bows as they passed. They were almost uniformly youngsters, those too young to have fought at Dragonfell but now coming into adulthood. The elders were more stubborn.

“We must attend the council, Warleader.” Zarfensis noted with approval that Xenir’s claws were unsheathed. They set off down the corridor, the metal leg beating out a war drum’s staccato rhythm on the smooth stone.

The council chamber was packed with bodies. The pack council sat on their high stone thrones looking down on the chaos on the floor. As Zarfensis and Xenir entered, the throng moved back against the walls, opening an aisle for them to approach the council. They stopped behind the advocate’s table, though there was no advocate present. Zarfensis knew better than to think this was a real tribunal. It was punitive justice.

The Voice stood, and bowed toward the two members of the council on his right, then the two on the left.

“The council speaks with one voice,” he said, in accordance to the laws the Xarundi had followed for centuries. “You are called before the council to answer for your crimes against the Chosen.”

Zarfensis had to wonder at the hypocrisy of the foolishness playing out before them. The Voice used the traditional words, handed down over hundreds of years, and yet there was no Advocate present, no customary way for them to defend themselves. Not that he expected anything about this meeting to be customary, but he wondered who the council thought they were fooling.

“If our crimes are those of not sitting idly by while the council destroys the last vestiges of our pride, then I’ll gladly plead guilty and end this farce right now.” Zarfensis motioned to those assembled in the chamber. “Do you honestly expect them to believe this nonsense?”

A murmur ran through the crowd and the Voice lifted the gavel, a stone cylinder about six inches tall and three in diameter, slamming it into the platform in front of his seat. The loud crack it produced effectively silenced the assembly.

“Do you,” the Voice stabbed a long finger at Zarfensis, “deny that you sent raiding parties out without the approval, or even knowledge of the pack council?”

“I deny nothing,” the High Priest said with a snarl. “I refuse to recognize the authority of any council that would have the Chosen cower like vermin in their dens.”

This time it was less of a murmur and more of a roar that went through the chamber. Zarfensis looked sidelong at Xenir and saw him scanning the crowd. They were thinking the same thing. Perhaps there were more elder loyalists than they had given credit for. Once again the gavel silenced the uproar.

“You will be summarily executed for treason,” the Voice announced, dropping any pretense of a fair ruling. He pointed to Xenir. “Your accomplice, the Warleader-”

The Voice never had a chance to finish his sentence. Zarfensis had hunkered down into a crouch, exploding forward as the magically imbued leg drove him across the advocate’s table and into the Voice. They crashed into the throne, toppling it and plunging the room into panic. The High Priest wrenched the gavel from the Voice’s hand and slammed it into the elder’s head. There was a sickening, satisfying crunch and the Voice twitched once and was silenced.

Tossing the gavel aside, Zarfensis saw that Xenir had followed his lead and descended on the other council members. He tore at them with a ferocity that bordered on zealotry. Zarfensis reached into the deepest depths of the Quintessential Sphere and called forth a disease-ridden mist that descended over the panicked Chosen scurrying about below the council platform.