T Lain: The Bloody Eye

“No,” he reasoned aloud, “no one builds ceremonial pillars in front of a barn.” Please let it be Pelor’s, he added silently as he turned up a footpath leading to the temple.

The old temple wasn’t dedicated to Pelor. The carving on the door portraying a fist holding a lightning bolt showed that clearly enough. Still, Jozan was relieved that the temple was consecrated to a good deity, even if he considered the priests of Heironeous the Invincible to be somewhat arrogant. He hesitated before entering, meditating upon Pelor’s goodness and asking for his guidance before seeking another deity’s aid.

The doors creaked as they opened, a mournful protest to their neglect that audibly interrupted the elderly priest praying before the altar. In one fluid motion, the priest raised the holy hammer from the altar and turned to face whatever bold intruder had entered the sanctuary. Jozan couldn’t help but be impressed. There was no flaw in the old priest’s martial technique. The intruder smiled, recognizing a fellow pilgrim who tried to practice what he preached.

The armed cleric immediately recognized the wooden sun symbol around Jozan’s neck and lowered the hammer. As calmly as though interrogating a novitiate in a familiar catechism, the priest queried Jozan. “Why does one who serves the sun seek the hammer?”

“My name is Jozan,” answered the young priest. “I serve the Soldiers of the Sun.” He paused, but when the old man said nothing, he felt uncomfortable and rushed to fill the disconcerting silence. “I haven’t actually attained full rank in my order.” When the old man merely waited for him to continue, Jozan tried to summarize his story. “My training was interrupted when King Ingemar the First heard of the wealth of our order. He declared us to be state criminals and commanded our gold to be confiscated.”

When the old man only nodded to inform Jozan that he was paying attention, Jozan explained how his Master General divided the treasury in half and sent the two groups in opposite directions. He spoke of their charge to establish new monasteries beyond the boundaries of their homeland, the Kingdom of the Schnai.

“And you were with such a group?” suggested the older priest.

Jozan shook his head. Then, feeling defensive, he hurried to explain himself. “I stayed with the Master General until he was arrested. When he knew that his death was imminent, I was sent here with messages for the Prior who had led the expedition to this land. I sought out this Prior, Augustin Calmet, my former tutor and chaplain, but learned that there was no new monastery. I was directed instead to the burned ashes of a house. Underneath the house was a cavern warded by malformed monsters and the twice-used skins on which Calmet had written a diatribe against Pelor.”

“Is that all you found?” queried the older man.

“No, your grace, but all of it was the work of a madman,” asserted the younger cleric. “The writings proclaimed that Calmet no longer serves Pelor and that he has tied himself to another apostate named Guillaume Laud. He has stolen our order’s gold and is apparently using it to rebuild the power of Gruumsh in the mountain settlements.”

“And what else?” asked the older priest, in his direct and simple manner.

“After I left the cavern, I tried to pick up the trail of Calmet. I’ve had no luck, but I have been assailed by monstrous creatures and mutilated animals. There is a bizarre sameness to all of them. All are missing their left eye, as the writings claimed Calmet and Laud do, and as did Gruumsh before them. Even the beast I fought this morning, and which drove off my horse and wounded my leg, was blinded in the same way. Its left eye was entirely gone.”

“Ah,” sighed the older cleric, “you are on a quest?” Jozan nodded. “Then do you seek revenge, restitution, or reputation?” asked the old priest.

Jozan was confused. When he paused, the old priest continued, “Think on it. Pelor’s radiance preserves the figs placed upon the rocks to dry, but the same heat rots the figs that fall to the ground. The anvil of Heironeous can temper a blade for battle or transform it into a shovel. Dried figs and rotten, shovels and swords, all have their place in this world. Still, I’d rather eat dried figs than rotten ones, and I’d rather carry a sword than a shovel into battle. So, again, I ask whether you seek revenge, restitution, or reputation?”

Jozan proudly responded that his quest was for justice.

“Justice?” beamed the older priest. “Then you’ve come to the right temple.” He smiled enigmatically and went on to ask, “Did you not mean to say Grace rather than Justice? After all, this fallen cleric is one of Pelor’s own. Are you not all children of Grace?”

“What do you mean?” retorted Jozan. “Even though Pelor chose Calmet, Calmet has chosen against Pelor.”

“But is it possible to choose against Pelor?”

Jozan’s head reeled. The old priest’s philosophy, the ache in his leg, and the heavy incense swirling near the altar pounded in the younger cleric’s brain. His vision blurred and he swayed slightly on his feet, then reached out a hand to steady himself against a pillar. When Jozan’s vision cleared, he was surprised to see that he and the priest of Heironeous were not alone. A third person rested within the much-neglected chapel. Whether she had been there all along, hidden in shadow, or had just entered, Jozan didn’t know. She reminded him of stories of the eternal warriors of Ysgard, a perfect blend of strength and well-toned beauty. Jozan couldn’t understand how he could have missed her. Had she been kneeling at the altar, or did she suddenly appear like a Celestial?

The cleric had a discomfiting feeling as the woman raised her eyes and moved her hands with palms facing up. Her outstretched arms formed a semicircle encompassing both priests. Jozan felt as if he were being scrutinized with waves of divine energy, as if someone or something was peering into his soul looking for evidence of goodness or evil intent. After a long minute of concentration, the woman seemed satisfied with her divination and spoke. Instead of the melodious chimes of the supernal voice he expected, he heard the quiet, confident voice of a human.

“I am Alhandra. I serve Heironeous.”

Jozan knew he should respond, but he felt his normal calm and confidence desert him. Any word would come out as a stammer.

Mercifully, the woman continued, “The one you seek may be nearby. The locals tell of a one-eyed cleric, sometimes seen in the hills beyond the village of Pergue. He is said to wear the solitary eye of Gruumsh, deliberately fashioned from what was once a silver sun symbol of Pelor.”

“That’s him,” shouted Jozan with excitement, “it must be!”

“Take caution, soldier of the sun,” warned the old priest. “You may be trained in the secrets of your order, but Calmet will bend the very brightness of Pelor into your eyes. He will blind you with questions against your own faith.”

Before Jozan could ask what the old priest meant, Alhandra spoke again. “I was journeying toward Pergue. Along with the tales of your tutor, I have heard rumors of orcs forming slaving bands and stories of mass mutilations. When I prayed to Heironeous for guidance, I was told that the source is ‘one who seeks that which shines like Pelor, but burdens like stone.’ I’ve seen with my own two eyes that an evil is spreading through the mountain towns and clans.”

“Something besides Calmet?” asked Jozan.

The woman nodded and continued speaking in a way that simultaneously aroused curiosity and slight embarrassment in the cleric. “The mountain clans have a fierce pride and a distrust of the civilization our lord sovereign has brought them. We think of it as civilization. They think of it as conquest. Gruumsh represents the old ways. Even with all of its abominations, with all of its evil and cruelty, it has become a rallying point for all who feel wronged.”