Colin Tabor - The Fall of Ossard

Three races of man separated by the ages;

The high, the Lae Velsanans; the numerous common-men of the middling nations; and the lowly Saldaens.

Three branches of magic, each with a league to control them;

Mind, governed by the women of the forbidden Sisterhood;

Soul, wielded by the priesthoods of the faiths; and Heart, regulated by the Cabal of Mages.

Three realms of existence;

Ours of soil; the Celestial of souls, gods, and magic; and the Elemental.

Three stages of godhood;

Avatars, seeds within mortal shells; the New-Born, awakened gods upon our world; and the Elevated, those matured and raptured to the next.

And all in a world forged by the goddess, Life, in partnership with her husband, Death.

Yet now they are estranged and waging divine war, a war that promises doom for us all.

The fiery brand seemed weak, its flame all but lost under the glare of the summer sun, yet the black robed man who wielded it stepped forward with all the chill and menace of the deepest winter squall.

Vilma watched the young Inquisitor cross the cobblestones to the base of the long, stake-studded, and oil-soaked pyre. She wasn’t alone. Four-dozen others also stood naked and bound as if some macabre forest had sprouted from the heart of Market Square.

Standing as straight as her bonds allowed, she tried to show her defiance despite her racing heart.

This wouldn’t be quick, and by the gods, it would hurt!

Inquisitor Anton met her wide blue eyes, waiting for her to break – they always did. As a member of the Church of Baimiopia’s Expeditia Puritanica, he’d already cleansed scores of souls across the Heletian League, yet here he’d truly excelled: His superiors had warned that the harvest in Ossard always came heavy and rich.

Thanks be to Krienta!

It was the Northerners’penchant for blood mixing, the intermarrying of pious Heletians with foreign Flets, that created such fertile ground for heresy. Ossard stood ripe for a good burning, and fortunately he had the faith to kindle it.

He could smell a witch at a dozen paces, tasting their vileness just as his keen nose could catch the dirty blood of a fertile woman. Anton was good at what he did, very good indeed.

The Flet bitch continued to stare at him. He smirked, letting her sample his smug disdain. Most of her fellows begged for mercy or persisted with cries of innocence, yet it was the few who maintained their silence that he focussed on. They were where the true danger lay.

He turned his back on her to bring his attention to the crowd being forced into the heart of Market Square. They needed witnesses, as many as they could get, to learn the lesson that the Inquisition dutifully taught: That none shall stray from St Baimio’s righteous path, for that was the only way to Krienta.

Thousands of hesitant townsfolk came forward, forced by a reluctant city watch, they in turn driven by the Sankto Glavos – the Inquisition’s holy knights. With barely a murmur, the two peoples of Ossard closed on the pyres, both the dark featured and olive skinned Heletians, and the blonde and fair Flets. Usually, their differences kept them apart, but today it was the true outsider – the Inquisition – that brought them together.

Vilma looked from her executioner’s back to her poor daughter where two monks held her at the front of the crowd. Inger, only newly a woman, struggled against their hands as she tried to turn her tear-filled eyes away. They stopped her, forcing her to look on.

The Sankto Glavos stood solid in their fine armour with shields and breastplates bedecked in black, navy and gold. The townsfolk before them cowered, the Heletians shedding tears to feed seeds of resentment with their sorrowful water, while their Flet brethren’s anger roused, fuelled by this latest act in an unfair history two centuries old.

Vilma whispered thanks to the gods that her daughter held no magic, but they’d also deprived her of the spirit she’d need to survive. She had to do something to give Inger a chance, something that might also spare her future children – for in their bloodline the ways of magic could skip a generation, but never two in a row.

She tried to keep her composure for Inger, to offer some kind of calm. It was hard, so very hard when she stood naked and bound to a stake rising from a pyre while so many different emotions rushed through her.

Her anger at her fate boiled, and that her daughter and her people should be made to watch the barbarity of it all only stoked that rage.

It also angered them; she could feel it. Her ability to delve into the celestial, the realm of magic and spirits, showed her the emotions entangling the souls around her. She would die today, but before her charred corpse fell crumbling and loosened from its burning bonds, the Inquisition would suffer the fury of the mob. Some already planned for it, both Flet and Heletian. By sunset the city would stand united, coming alive in riots led by the guilds and merchant houses. More would die. But dawn would see Ossard free of the Inquisition and their damned Black Fleet.

In a strong voice, Inquisitor Anton called, “Witches and warlocks will burn while cultists will drown. Yes, faithful people, the Church of Baimiopia will keep Ossard safe by picking the unfit hidden amongst you. Behold, the cleansing of the foul!” Then he dropped the burning brand, letting it fall through the silence and onto the edge of the oiled pyre.

The flames blossomed, rolling up to lick at Vilma’s toes while their searing breath raced higher to singe her blonde hair and scorch her fair skin. She struggled against her bonds, but it was pointless. The shock of the pain didn’t allow her to do anything more than jerk and buck. She needed to focus, to blind herself to the agony and avoid the madness it would bring.

She had to focus…

Flames raged to either side of her and all about the stakes rising from amongst the piles of oiled wood. Men and women screamed and writhed against their bindings while the crowd cried out in horror.

Vilma fought against the pain, pushing it down, back, and into her heart. There she worked to harness it, to use it for power. This would be her only chance.

And all the while the flames grew stronger.

Blisters rose along her reddened and swelling legs, and lower her feet blackened and charred. The scent of her own burning flesh haunted her nose, yet she found sanctuary despite the stink and searing blast.

She stared out into the crowd, her gaze locking on to her daughter.

Inger looked back, her head held tight by the monks. Tears ran freely from her wide and innocent eyes, rolling down her cheeks to her chin, from where they fell free to land on the cobbles.

What Vilma would have given to sup of them!

She whispered, a sound that couldn’t hope to break above the hiss and snap of the roaring flames, yet she knew Inger would hear. Delving into the secret arts, she harnessed her boiling blood as it leaked from doomed veins to spend its power. This would be her last casting.

Yes, she was a witch, but what of it? She’d never burnt anyone at the stake or committed any other crime. She wasn’t the monster!

She whispered to Inger, first soothing words and cooing.

Her daughter stilled her struggles, so much so that the monks holding her began to loosen their grip.

Vilma then gave her a message, whispering it over and over, “Remember your children, keep them safe.”

The monks relaxed as Inger calmed. Now, her only sign of anguish came from the tears streaming down her pale cheeks. The monks stepped back, leaving her to her misery.