Authors: Mark Acres
“You see, my dears,” he said to the assembled female prisoners, “your fate could be much worse than providing entertainment for a man who is nearly a god.”
The women had been carefully selected for His Majesty’s pleasure from among the fairest of the ruined city by loyal officers who, knowing no favors would come from their general-in-chief, were only too glad to court them from their decadent king. In response to his words, the women nodded fearfully.
“Take them to be prepared for us,” Ruprecht snapped to the captain of the guard, who kept a wary eye on the chained Clairton wenches. It was easy, the guard knew, for a petticoat to hide a dagger. “We will have a great feast tonight, thanks to the stores of Clairton, and these will attend our pleasure.”
The guard nodded, turned, and with barked order ushered the prisoners from the king’s presence.
“And send for Culdus,” the young king called out, flopping over the arms of the great chair upon which the king of Clairton had once sat while dispensing his wisdom and justice.
“No need,” the deep voice of Baron Manfred Culdus thundered from the doorway. “I am here. Sire, a word with you....”
“Indeed, Culdus, I would have a word with you,” the king snarled, his lips twisting into a sneer. “I gave the booty of this city to the army....”
“Which I begged Your Majesty not to do,” Culdus snapped back. “This behavior undermines discipline, which has been essential to the success we have so far enjoyed.” The stocky, grizzled warrior removed his great helm, tucked it beneath his left shoulder, cradled it in one arm, and bowed from the waist. “I, of course, intend no disrespect,” he added quickly, seeing the familiar gleam of cruelty rising in the king’ s eyes.
“Then do not offer what you do not intend,” Ruprecht screeched. “When I offered booty, I did not give leave for the destruction of this city. It may yet be a source of interest and pleasure for me. You will stop this destruction.”
“Nothing, Your Majesty, would bring me greater pleasure.”
“Except, perhaps,” Ruprecht teased, “the conquest of the Duchies, and the occupation of this land up to the borders of Parona? And the investment of the borders of the Elven Preserve?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. I had come to report that once we are finished with our…
duties here in Clairton, the army should move at once to consolidate the Duchies. And Valdaimon must proceed with his promise to establish civil administration in all these lands. With your permission...”
“Granted, granted,” Ruprecht said with a casual wave of his hand.
“I thank you, Sire,” the general-in-chief replied. The old warrior turned and strode quickly from the room. For once, an interview with the king had gone better than expected—probably because Valdaimon wasn’t around. Where the old wizard might be only dimly worried the general. He had fresh conquests, and growing difficulties of morale and supply, to occupy his mind.
The Temple of Wojan was the largest of the temples of Hamblen. Its smooth, gleaming, white marble walls soared over ninety feet, curving slightly to give the overall structure—some three hundred feet square—the appearance of a huge marble box that was bulging at the sides, ready to explode. The flat roof was crowned with a massive marble sculpture of the god himself that reared another forty feet toward the heavens. The construction had taken three hundred years; the sculpture had occupied the talents of two generations of the kingdom’s finest artists.
Wojan appeared in battle array, his muscular legs protected by grieves, his loins girt about with a simple leather skirt, and his rippling chest protected by a small, round shield made of wood and banded with metal. But his right arm was raised high, the muscles so taut that even the carved veins could be seen from street level, the right hand grasping the deadly battle hammer with which he was about to strike the imaginary enemy to his front. The god’s face was a portrait of barbarian rage. His large eyes glared out from squinted lids, his wide nose was capped by flared nostrils, and his lips were drawn back in contortions of anger to reveal the broad, divine teeth. The god’s hair, a thick mane longer than shoulder length, flowed backward, blown by some invisible wind. Clutching the enraged divinity’s sandaled feet, two sharp-toothed, grinning demons gazed out with glee upon the anticipated destruction of the god’s foe.
This imposing structure, which dwarfed mere men to nothingness, sat at one end of the largest square in the capital, the Square of the Gods—a huge open plaza surrounded by the principal houses of worship of all the deities of Heilesheim. The sole approach to this vast, holy area was the Royal Road, which linked the square to the royal residence and fortress, slightly over a mile distant. The entirety of this paved way was lined with sculptures of the kings of Heilesheim, extending back to the kings of legend who hand-forged the realm from the internecine squabbles of numerous barbarian tribes whose very names were now forgotten save in the appellations of these ancient kings.
The front of Wojan’s temple faced across the square to the Royal Road; its outer courtyard, which was all the average worshiper ever saw, occupied one full side of the square. From the courtyard, a series of thirty low steps rose gradually to the great flat doors, themselves twenty feel high, which were the only entrance to the massive structure. The doors themselves were of polished, dark hard-wood, of a type not known in the land but imported from the forests of the far north. The wood had been transported by sea to the great port of Hamblen, where its arrival had been the occasion for a municipal holy day. The wood was later overlaid with gold leaf, on which panels of friezes depicted scenes of Heilesheim’s battle glories from the days of old—when the kingdom was young, and many lands that now considered themselves loyal portions of the heartland were recent conquests.
The gold did not glitter in the moonless sky of the early summer night—not this night, as Sigurt stood alone in the empty square, a tiny, solitary figure gazing upward at the mass of stone erected to the glory of destruction. Normally, the sight of the temple was enough to absorb Sigurt’s spirit; his very being would be caught up in the contemplation of something so much greater than himself that any personal worries were simply no longer possible. But that particular calming magic did not work for Sigurt tonight.
The priest lowered his gaze to the worn flagstones of the great courtyard. His eye caught the wide, thick, fancy strip of gold brocade that ran along the hem of his holiest white robe—a robe of heavy linen laid over with pure silk. A simple belt of similar material was tied in a single knot at his waist, while his chest was ornamented with the great, broad, purple-and-gold surplice studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which could be worn only on high holy occasions or at the command of the god himself. Beneath these ceremonial vestments, Sigurt wore the traditional garb of the god: sandals, greaves, and a short leather skirt. His own hair was short, but a wig created a black, flowing mane for the high priest. On the left arm of the white robe, the figure of a wooden shield was cleverly created by a combination of embroidery and tiny gemstones, and in his hands the high priest carried a ceremonial silver war hammer—the symbol of the divine weapon with which Wojan had conquered the Olden Ones and brought glory, order, and the mission of empire to the great kingdom of Heilesheim.
Thus adorned, the high priest was said to be the visible presence of the god himself. If that were true, Sigurt thought, then great Wojan himself must be uneasy tonight, for I surely do not trust the course the god has laid out before me.
Of all the citizens of Heilesheim, only the temple priests were aware that tonight their high priest stood in the vast, empty square in holiest garb, prepared to perform a series of rituals granted by the god so seldom that two generations had been born and passed away since the last such ceremony was held. That ceremony, a ceremony of healing for the then-king Wilhelm the Great, had been a scene of great public ritual and the occasion for a three-day holiday when the king’s health was recovered. Tonight’s ceremony was a secret, a secret that could be divulged only at the risk of one’s life.
Sigurt had reluctantly made the necessary preparations. The entire interior of the temple, down to the last cell occupied by the lowliest acolyte, had been ceremonially cleansed. Secret offerings of vast treasures in gold, silver, jewelry, weapons, and gems had been anonymously donated to the temples of all the gods whose rank was sufficient to earn them a place of worship on the great square—for the power to heal was not one of Wojan’s usual powers, and the war god was forced to call upon his siblings for the divine words that could restore health and wholesomeness to flesh.
Then there had come the dreadful sacrifices. Beasts of every type and description—from the lowliest creeping thing to a great ape reared from birth in the bowels of the great temple for just such an occasion—had been taken in the dark of night to the small, modest temple of the war god’s most powerful brother, Raggenolm, the god of the dead. There they were sacrificed, one by one, a gift from Wojan to his proud brother’s realm. This was not part of the usual healing ceremony: these special sacrifices were intended to secure Raggenolm’s cooperation in transmuting the healing magic of the other gods so that it could apply to the flesh of one who was not alive—and not entirely dead. At the climax of these ceremonies had been the human sacrifices, warrior prisoners taken from Argolia: a dozen Argolian knights. These had required the participation of Sigurt himself, making him the only high priest of Wojan to personally slay a warrior since the worship of the god had begun in the mists of the past.
Inside Wojan’ s temple, while Sigurt stood his lonely vigil, the three hundred priests were gathered in ranks like a holy army in the great hall of worship, prepared to offer the supplication to Wojan and the other gods that would restore the flesh of the unusual supplicant who was to present himself tonight.
Sigurt shuddered suddenly, even though the summer night air was mild and warm. Always, always, the way of Wojan had been hard. Wojan demanded sacrifice of self to the good of the army, the good of the kingdom, the glory of war. But always, always, the worship of Wojan had been a very human thing—not humane, not kind, not even desirable from the point of view of lazy men who loved prosperity and peace more than danger and celebration in the immortal songs of the faith—but always human. Tonight.... Sigurt shuddered again. Tonight, Sigurt thought, Wojan does not overcome the power of death with courage that leads to glory, as has always been his way. Tonight Wojan forges an alliance with death, death for its own sake, death that is so powerful that it itself lives. It did not seem right to the priest. But who was he to question Wojan? His duty, like every loyal soldier’s, was to obey.
Sigurt’s dark thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of bare human feet padding gently down the Royal Road. The high priest raised his eyes; in the distance, he could make out a moving, dark mass in the darkness of the night, a mass that slowly came closer and resolved into the images of men bearing a litter. In that litter was the supplicant for whose sake all these preparations had been made—none other than Valdaimon, the wizard, the undead thing who could call forth more magic than any human and, some claimed, knew incantations undiscovered even by the elves.
The litter-bearers came straight ahead, clearly visible now, even in the darkness of the night. They did not slow their pace until they suddenly stopped less than ten feet in front of Sigurt, heads bowed even as they held their heavy burden.
Sigurt raised the ceremonial hammer and dipped it once in the ancient gesture of Wojan’s blessing. “The power of Wojan be on everyone here who loves war, hates slothful peace, and seeks glory in Wojan’s kingdom,” he intoned.
The litter-bearers lowered their burden without looking up. Then, as one, they scattered back down the road the way they had come, to await their summons out of sight of the temple.
An incoherent, high-pitched howl of greeting came from within the lowered litter.
“Step forward, supplicant, to beseech the favor of Wojan,” Sigurt called, in a loud voice.
The yellow-and-red silk curtains of the litter parted. With much panting, wheezing, and struggling, the withered, naked form of Valdaimon slowly emerged into the night. The old mage cut an almost comical figure as he wobbled and staggered in his attempt to rise, waving his one arm wildly for balance. Sigurt grimaced, This was sickeningly comical, obscene in a particularly hideous way. Then, as the old man steadied himself, the priest saw clearly the extent of the damage to the disgusting body. The visual assault was combined with the legendary stench that always accompanied Valdaimon—and for a moment, the high priest fought hard against his natural tendency to gag. But the dignity of his position and his duty to Wojan forbade any such reaction.
Valdaimon stared at Sigurt with his one rheumy eye. He wondered if the priest could read the hatred on his face, the utter contempt he felt for all priests and the gods they represented. Religion was a poor substitute for the real power of magic, and nothing but indomitable necessity had driven him to seek this priest’s help. And the cost! The cost! No doubt, Valdaimon thought, that was what the priest would next address.
“Valdaimon, servant of the king of Heilesheim, and thereby servant of Wojan,” Sigurt bellowed in a deep voice, choosing his words carefully so as never to imply that Valdaimon was a willing servant of the god, “do you come as a humble supplicant seeking from Wojan that which is beyond your power, that which only a god can bestow?”