Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

The Captain’s hands, far more gentle now than they ever had been, smoothed her hair down. She bristled at the kindness, only too aware that the comfort she received from him now, that she had wanted from him for so long, would be one of the last times he would be able to offer her that comfort. He tightened his grip as he felt her stiffen. She pushed ineffectually at his chest, furious at him for making her care and then leaving her alone. Tia felt his lips brush her forehead. His tenderness was almost unbearable.

“Shhhh now,” he whispered in her ear. His hot breath tickling the nape of her neck where she still leaned against him, as much for support as for comfort. Her hands clutched spasmodically at his scarred chest.

All at once, the terrible grief washed out of her, like someone pulling the plug in a tub drain. Left in its wake was sadness so profound that Tia wondered if she would ever be able to be happy again. Slowly, the sobs subsided, but she dared not move. She had waited so long for his touch that she didn’t want to break the tenuous bond between them any sooner than she had to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. It was the first, last, and only time Tiadaria ever heard him cry. “I’m sorry that I put all of this on you. You didn’t choose to be on the platform that day, and you didn’t choose to be what you are. You certainly didn’t choose for me to place all of my hope in you.”

She reached up, her palm caressing his cheek. It was her turn to offer what comfort she could.

“It’s okay,” Tiadaria said softly. “I belong to you. I am what you need me to be, and I’m happy that I can be.”

“No-”

She silenced his interruption with a finger across his lips. If she were to stand on her own, without him, she would need to learn to take charge. It was time for him to hear what she had to say. Slave she may be, but she was no one’s property. She owned herself. Who she honored with her service was her decision and her decision alone.

You saved me, Captain. When no one else would. When no one else cared. If it weren’t for you, I’d have been dead at least twice over. You’ve given me my life. The least I can do is to gift that life to you. For as long as you have left.”

“And what after?”

She shrugged. “What comes after, comes after. You’ve never treated me as property, but I still belong to you. In a way that I will never belong to anyone else. You’ve given me purpose and trained my talents to meet that purpose. I’ve given you my service. I think we both got something we needed.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Tiadaria gave him a gentle push and he went to his bed. After she heard him settle, she slid under her own covers. She waited until his breath became deep and regular and then she closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly.

The tunnel to the cathedral was pitch black and tightly cramped, the blind turns nearly doubling back on themselves. Countless sub-tunnels branched off in all directions. Many leading nowhere but to a dead end or a shaft that fell deep into the earth. It was said that a man could spend his lifetime exploring those tunnels and never find the entrance to the holiest of the Xarundi holy places. It was probably so. No other living thing on Solendrea could follow the path that Zarfensis now raced down. Even if they could, there were things in the tunnels that wouldn’t threaten the Xarundi, but would make short order of any interlopers.

Zarfensis burst out of the tunnel and raced across a natural stone bridge toward the cathedral. The wind was cold and dank, wafting up from the depths of the chasm that surrounded the huge stone building. The windows danced with blue fire, hundreds of eyes peering out at him, awaiting his arrival. Running on all fours was well and good for travel, but it didn’t make for a dignified entrance. As he reached the end of the bridge, he stood on his hind legs, his powerful tail counterbalancing the slightly heavier weight of his muscular arms.

Walking the torch lit path to the cathedral, Zarfensis gazed upward. He had known he was destined to be High Priest when he was still just a pup. He remembered vividly coming to the cathedral with his pack. His sire and grand-sire had been priests, but Zarfensis had ultimately proven them weak. Advancing through the ranks of the Shadow Assembly with a combination of deception, cruelty, and guile, Zarfensis had taken control of the Xarundi and the lesser species they controlled. His brethren were a great army, a force to be reckoned with, and soon the army of man would be scattered to the corners of the glove. The dark days of the Cleansing would be repaid in full.

This temple was the seat of his power. Its black granite slabs, shot with lines of white, reached high up into the massive subterranean chamber. Torches cast writhing shadows across the doors, two rectangular stone slabs set in the face of the building, each taller than Zarfensis by double. They slowly retracted as he approached, the mechanism rumbling beneath his feet. Striding into the building, he paid no attention to the few bitches and pups in the antechamber. He pushed through the doors that lead into the center chamber, with its rows and rows of benches on which his army now perched. They shot to their feet at he entered, their howls brass thunder that bounced off the stone walls.

Bounding up the stairs to the dais, he raised his arms and the crowd fell silent. Even the lesser races, who had been allowed to stand in the back of the chamber to witness their High Priest, stood expectantly quiet.

“A thousand years ago, man all but wiped the Chosen from the face of Solendrea. They rose up against us, their rightful masters, and drank deeply of the blood of our ancestors. Soon, we will make them feel the pain of the Cleansing as it comes to their doors. We will drink of their blood and feast on their flesh and we will walk in their cities, confined to our underground sanctuary no longer!”

The roar of the assembly shook the building. Zarfensis could feel it through the pads on his feet, a steady, growing vibration that heralded the conflict that would soon explode from the confines of their refuge.

“Tonight, go and spend time with your bitches and pups. Walk the stone halls that you have walked for you lifetimes, for some of you will not return. Those of you, who fall in battle, fall knowing that you have returned Solendrea to our care. That your sacrifice ensures that we will once again reign supreme. Tomorrow, we begin our assault!”

As one, the assembled Chosen rose to their feet and howled a long, dissonant cry that warned their prey of their coming demise. Zarfensis waved his hand in dismissal, and the cathedral began to disgorge the massive number of bodies it held. The exodus was loud and chaotic, but soon the High Priest was left alone in the cathedral. His ears swiveled to and fro, alert for any indication that some wayward subject might have remained behind. There was only silence.

Zarfensis dropped from the dais and crossed to the rectory, sliding the heavy doorway aside with ease and replacing it behind him. He took the short hall to his chambers in two great leaps and landed lightly on his feet in the sparsely furnished room. Sliding a claw into the space between two rocks, he toggled the hidden switch there. A feral smile crossed his elongated face as the false wall moved out of the way and revealed a curving staircase beyond.

The first few steps were taken in total blackness, but as he descended, the bottom of the circular stairs began to glow with a sinister blue-black light. He could feel the pull of the rune, the sickly-sweet power of it, its tendrils reaching out to encircle his mind. The High Priest could feel it trying to press into his thoughts, to twist them with images of macabre death and pestilence and all things foul and unholy. He allowed the images to wash through him, but steeled his mind against the rune taking over.