The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet (20 page)

Mendeln glanced at the wings again, realizing that they were different from those of birds. What he had taken for feathering looked, when studied closer, more of an artist’s rendition of
flame
. Mendeln had never heard legends of any creature or spirit with such wings, not even in the stories his mother had told him when he had been a very young child.

In the giant figure’s left hand it held a great sword whose tip rested on the base beneath the statue. The other hand pointed down, not merely, it seemed to Mendeln, indicating the grave beneath, but also those around it. He had the distinct impression that this was supposed to
mean
something to him, but what, Uldyssian’s brother could not say.

And so, despite his situation, Mendeln grew frustrated beyond belief. He was a patient man in general, but someone appeared to be trying—very successfully—to draw him past his limits.

“All right, then!” he shouted, his voice echoing over and over and over in the silence. “If you want something from me, then tell me what it is! Tell me, I demand it!”

The moment that he finished, a grating sound filled his ears. Swallowing, Mendeln watched in horror as the statue’s pointing hand turned enough so that it now indicated what was written on the base.

Mendeln waited for it to do something else, but the winged guardian froze once more. Slowly, he built up the nerve to look down at what was below.

The same ancient script greeted him. He had hardly expected otherwise, but still this added to his frustration.

“But I cannot
read
it!” he muttered. “I do not know what any of it says!” Squinting, Mendeln attempted to recall the words that had come unbidden to him that frightening time when the demon had caught him alone in the woods. He remembered the images in his head and the sounds of those words, but they were still not enough to help Mendeln with what now lay before him.

Weary of the futility of this nightmare, Mendeln finally dared lean on the grave as he studied each mark. His mouth formed shapes, but that was all. Nothing, absolutely nothing, made sense.

“What does it say?” he growled under his breath.
“What
does it say?”

The Dragon has chosen you…

Mendeln jerked to his feet. He had heard a voice like that once before, back in Seram. It was akin to the voice of Cyrus…

Cyrus,
after
he had been killed.

Part of him wanted to scream for this new one to get out of his head, but another part fixed on what had been said.
The Dragon has chosen you…

He stared at the ancient script and read it anew. “The Dragon has chosen me—you…the…Dragon…has…chosen…you…”

And suddenly, Uldyssian’s brother could read that line. More important,
other
symbols now made more sense. Mendeln felt that he was now on the verge of discovering the meanings of all of them and, in doing so, discovering the truth about what was happening.

But what did the phrase actually relate to? Kneeling close again, Mendeln studied the symbol representing the most important word…Dragon. A loop twisting into itself, a thing without beginning or end. Mendeln knew what a dragon was from legends; why would this mark represent such a creature? And why such a creature at all?

“What happened?” Mendeln quietly asked…then frowned when he noted how he had phrased the question. He had meant to ask
what is happening
. Why would he—

The dirt beneath his hand suddenly shifted…as if something beneath was seeking to dig its way
out
.

Eyes round, Mendeln scrambled back. In doing so, he inadvertently threw himself atop another of the graves, where, to his further dismay, something
also
began to stir beneath.

Worse, it began to register on him that graves
everywhere
were shifting, stirring. Mounds of upturned dirt decorated many already and Mendeln’s imagination pictured skeletal figures readying to emerge.

But just as it seemed that his imagination would become a monstrous reality, there formed in the shadow of the winged statue a figure entirely shrouded in black. Mendeln had a momentary glimpse of a face not unlike his own in that it was studious in nature, but otherwise very, very different. It had an unreal handsomeness to it, as only a sculpture or a painting could achieve.

The figure drew a single symbol in the air, a daggerlike mark that for a single blink flared a bright white. What sounded like a great sigh swept through the cemetery—

The graves stilled. The cloaked form vanished…and, at that point, Mendeln’s surroundings changed.

He was still in Partha, that much even his jolted mind would have guessed, but Uldyssian’s brother no longer stood within the cemetery. Instead, Mendeln was poised at its gateway, the gargoyle’s grinning maw seeming to mock his sanity. The cemetery no longer looked ancient and overrun, but well-kept, as one would have expected in Partha.

But no matter how hard he squinted, Mendeln could see no winged statue.

Something touched his shoulder, causing him to yelp like a kicked hound. Strong fingers grasped Mendeln and turned him around.

To his relief, it was Achilios, not some fiend from the dead.

“Mendeln! Are you all right! What are you doing
here?”
The hunter looked almost as pale as Uldyssian’s brother felt. Achilios’s eyes darted past Mendeln to study the cemetery with utter loathing. “Did you go in there?”

“I—No.” It seemed best to Mendeln not to try to explain, since he himself was not quite certain just what had taken place. A delusion? A dream? Insanity?

Instead, Mendeln focused on a new and intriguing question. “Achilios, my friend, why are
you
here? Did you follow me?”

This time, it was the archer who hesitated before replying with an equally suspicious “Yes. I did.” Achilios gave Mendeln a sudden grin, then slapped the farmer on the shoulder. “Don’t want you getting lost, eh, Mendeln? Town this size, lots of things to distract you, hmm?”

Mendeln was not certain whether he was supposed to be insulted by such comments, but chose to ignore them for the sake of both men. Perhaps another time, he could share his secrets with Achilios and the hunter could do the same with him. Those secret, he believed, all focused on that fateful stone back home.

“You need to come with me back to the square. Uldyssian—”

It shamed Mendeln that he had not been concerned about his brother. Nervously rubbing his hands together, he blurted “Uldyssian! Is he all right?”

“More than that,” replied Achilios. “But you’ll have to see to understand—” He happened to look down at Mendeln’s hands. His brow arched. “Your hands are covered in dirt! What—?”

“I tripped in the street just before here and had to use my hands to keep from striking the stone with my face,” Mendeln quickly explained. “There was dirt there,” he added rather lamely.

To his relief and surprise, the blond bowman took this answer at face value, too. “A fall in the street! You’re getting too absentminded for your own good! Here, let’s find something to wipe your hands off with and be on our way…”

With nothing else around, Mendeln finally had to brush his hands against his garments. As a farmer, he was used to doing such, but felt a little embarrassed to be seen so in Partha. Yet, they could not very well return to Master Ethon’s home first. Mendeln dearly wanted to see what was happening in the square.

He started to follow Achilios, only to falter but a few steps later. Making certain that his friend was not looking his way, Mendeln spun in a quick circle, searching.

The ghosts who had been with him since the battle in the wild were nowhere to be found. It was as if that, when the shrouded figure had sent the spirits of the graves to their rest, it had also done the same for the shades of the Temple’s guards.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Did you say something?” asked the archer, pausing to let him catch up.

“No…” Mendeln replied with a vigorous shake of his head. “No.”

Achilios took this answer as he had the others, for which Uldyssian’s brother was grateful. Yet, as they hurried along, Mendeln’s mind stayed not with his sibling’s situation, but the unsettling, indeed, even
sinister,
episode through which he had just suffered.

One thing about it haunted him most of all. Not what had happened, not exactly. No, it was a new question that the strange vision had raised…or rather,
two
new questions bound together.

What
was
the Dragon…and why had it chosen
him?

Despite Achilios’s genial appearance, his mood was actually darker than when he had gone off in search of Mendeln. The archer had not at all expected to discover Uldyssian’s brother standing at the very entrance to such a place. It had brought back full-blown for a second time the horrific sensations that Achilios had suffered after touching the stone.

He had tried to cover up his abrupt anguish immediately and was thankful that Mendeln had been so preoccupied that he had not noticed. Unfortunately, that preoccupation had drawn the hunter’s attention in turn…and was what ate away at Achilios even now.

When asked if he had entered the cemetery, Mendeln had denied doing such a thing. Yet, Achilios did not have to have a master hunter’s honed senses to know that the dirt on the other’s hands was not what would have been found in the street. It had a drier consistency, an aged look, and there had been some bits of weed and grass mixed in, too.

The sort of dirt that would have been more likely found—very easily—in a cemetery.

That, in turn, caused Achilios to remember another time, back in Seram, when Brother Mikelius had wished to see the grave of the murdered missionary…and had proclaimed to the archer and the others there that someone had desecrated it. The Master Inquisitor had believed Uldyssian somehow responsible. Uldyssian or someone near to him.

And now here was Mendeln at another cemetery, with dirt on his hands, Mendeln, who had been curiously absent during much of the events in the village.

Mendeln…who in some ways was beginning to frighten Achilios even more than Uldyssian.

Day followed after day in Partha with no end to Uldyssian’s task. It was not that he could not sense the forces stirring within most of those who came to him, but that their progress beyond that did not leap forward—as his and even Lylia’s had done—mystified Uldyssian. He spoke of it with her as they lay in bed in the elegant quarters granted them by the generous Master Ethon, but Lylia seemed not at all bothered by the lack of results.

“It shows that you are even more special, my love, as I already knew,” she cooed, her hand running over his chest. “But give it a few more days. I think you will begin to see what you desire.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he returned morosely. “I also appreciate it more since I know you weren’t happy when we found ourselves here instead of nearly in Kehjan.”

“I am, if nothing else, very adaptable, dear Uldyssian. I have been forced to be.”

Uldyssian would have questioned her remark, but when he looked at her again, it was to discover that Lylia had just drifted off to sleep. A few minutes later, he fell asleep, too, for the next few hours happily relieved of his concerns.

The noblewoman’s prediction came to pass barely two days later. By this time, Uldyssian had touched nearly everyone in the town. There were astonishingly few people hesitant about awakening the gift within themselves and fewer yet that he could deny.

It was Master Ethon who suggested those who should be forbidden time with Uldyssian. They were criminals all, the most suspicious and untrustworthy. As lead justice of the Parthan tribunal, the merchant knew most of them by face. He made certain to stand by Uldyssian once he knew what was happening.

“That man there,” Ethon had declared. “Be wary of giving him anything…” He then pointed to another. “He’s likely to slit your throat while you greet him, so watch that one, too.”

In the beginning, Uldyssian had dutifully obeyed, but on this day, he saw again the first man in question, an unsavory, bearded soul by the name of Romus. A wicked scar ran across a good portion of his bald pate, a result, no doubt of his nefarious activities. The moment that Romus saw that he in turn was being observed, he started to leave. However, Uldyssian suddenly decided that he
wanted
to speak with the disreputable figure.

“Romus! Romus! Come to me!”

Hundreds of pairs of eyes fixed on Romus. He had no choice but to step forward despite scowls from the town Guard and many others.

Master Ethon, too, was not pleased. “Uldyssian, I know you mean well, lad, but such as
him
would be more of a danger if given the gift—”

Lylia put a soft hand on the merchant’s arm. “But dear Ethon! How do you know that some others like Romus have not already received Uldyssian’s aid? Can you claim to know
every
villain to walk Partha?”

“No, my lady, but I know a damn lot—pardon my saying so—and this one’s among the worst!”

She would not be dissuaded. “You have seen the faces of those who have been awakened. You yourself have experienced it, too. Look deep. Do you think that you could ever use it for ill?”

Ethon faltered. “No…never…but…”

“No one
could,”
Lylia insisted. “No one could.”

Not bothering to wait to see what his host might say next, Uldyssian reached for Romus, who looked less like a threat and more like a frightened child. The bald man was surrounded by a good many townsfolk who considered Uldyssian something of a holy figure.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Uldyssian. To the crowd, he added, “Give him some room. It’s all right.”

As they obeyed, the son of Diomedes drew him closer. Romus frowned but let himself be guided.

Still at Master Ethon’s side, Lylia leaned forward, her gaze intent.

The rest of the townsfolk watched warily, Romus’s reputation apparently well known. They were ready to defend Uldyssian if anything happened.

But Uldyssian himself had no such fears. The moment that he touched the other man’s hands, the force within him surged forth. Uldyssian immediately felt it stir something within Romus. The bald man gasped and a look of wonder spread across his face. It made him look like a completely different person, one whom Uldyssian would have trusted with his life.

“It’s—It’s—” Romus stammered.

“Yes, it is.”

Uldyssian stepped back, as ever, giving the person a chance to come to grips with the change themselves. Romus chuckled like a child and a tear slid down his cheek. With both hands, he rubbed the top of his head as he tried to comprehend.

As the hands came away, Lylia abruptly called, “Uldyssian! See what he’s done! Look at the scar!”

Uldyssian could
not
look at it…for it no longer existed. The skin where once the jagged cut had lain was now as healthy and as pink as that on Jonas’s restored face.

And it had not been because of any effort by Uldyssian.

That was not immediately apparent to the townsfolk, who applauded this latest work as his. Quickly raising his hands high, Uldyssian waited for the crowd to quiet, then shouted, “What you see was none of my doing! None at all! What you see before you…the miracle you’ve witnessed…Romus did himself!” When cries of denial arose, he grew more stern. “I say this and I know this! Who here would call me false?”

No one there
could
. Many began looking in amazement at Romus, who shook his head over and over, trying to deny the truth as much as his neighbors had a moment before.

But Uldyssian would not let him. “Romus, come join me here by the fountain! Let the others see!”

Wordlessly, the bearded man obeyed. Others crowded forward, murmuring to one another and pointing at the healed area. Romus began to turn a deep shade of crimson. There was nothing about him that looked like the hardened criminal Master Ethon had first identified.

“Uncanny…” muttered the merchant from the background. “Is it possible?”

Lylia clutched their host’s arm tight. “It is!” she breathed to Ethon. “Do you understand
now?”

“Yes…yes…I suppose I do…”

Meanwhile, Uldyssian had gathered the people’s attention again. “It may be some time before anything manifests again, but you see now what is possible! Let no one doubt that
everyone
will be able to do the same…and more!”

That was enough to send the throng into a roar. Many fell to their knees and thanked Uldyssian, who looked extremely upset by this reaction.

“Get up! Get up!” he insisted. His fury shook his followers. They stared fearfully.

He did not care. They had to understand. “No one bows to me! I’m no king, no patriarch of a mage clan! I was and still am a simple
farmer!
My land, my home, may be lost to me, but that’s what I remain even with what I’ve been granted! I offer to share, not to command! Never, ever, kneel to me again! There are no masters here! Only equals!”

Even as he said it, Uldyssian knew that they did not entirely see it that way. They would look to him for answers, for direction. He consoled himself with the thought that he acted as teacher, as guide. One day soon, most would no longer need him. There was even the possibility that some would surpass Uldyssian and that he, in turn, would have to learn from them.

For the time being, though, it was all up to him. Romus’s startling act, though, gave him renewed hope. Each person was individual. As a farmer, he understood how growth varied. All he had to do was be more patient.

He had the time. Kehjan was not expecting him. He could stay here until he was certain. That would make it all the better when he did present himself to the inhabitants of the city.

Feeling better about matters, Uldyssian turned to the next supplicant…and the next…and the next…

Malic was being more cautious, this time. Not because he felt any concern about facing Uldyssian, but because he wanted the mission to go very cleanly. The morlu could be a double-edged sword in some respects. They were very capable, but their tendency for bloodshed almost rivaled that of demons. Fortunately, the master had chosen a capable servant in Damos and Damos had chosen well in his five warriors. Collectively, they were a far more potent force than the demons and guards that the cleric had led previously.

Damos even now stalked ahead of the party, sniffing the air like a beast on the scent. The other morlu sat eagerly in the saddle, awaiting word of the prey.

“This way they came,” grated Damos. He raised his ram’s skull helmet up to the sky and sniffed again. “And in this place, they turned…that way.”

Malic’s gaze followed the outthrust arm. “Are you certain?”

The lead morlu grinned, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth. “I smell the blood, high priest…”

“They were heading toward Kehjan. When last I encountered them, they were well on their way to the lowlands and the jungles. Veering off in
that
direction means an extreme detour.”

Damos shrugged. To his kind, such considerations were unnecessary. All that mattered was where the prey could be found, not what direction it had run before the hunt.

The cleric stroked his monstrous arm, a motion that had, in the short time since the transformation, become an unconscious habit. The clawed fingers twitched. Just before the party had left, the master had finally told him what the hand could do. Malic was now eager to try it…but to do that he had to reach his quarry.

“We go that way, then,” the high priest finally declared.

Grunting, Damos returned to his dark steed. That following the trail was what they needed to do was very obvious to all the morlu, but they knew their place and so did not make anything of the cleric’s unnecessary comment. The high priest could send them to their deaths if he so desired, so long as it served the Temple. They would not question his leadership unless commanded to by the master.

With Malic in the lead, the band rode on at a furious clip. Curiously, their mounts left no trails of their own and, indeed, even the clatter of hooves was missing. Had there been any other person there to witness their passing, they might have noticed that the hooves did not even quite touch the ground…

Night settled again upon the town of Partha. An exhausted Uldyssian fell into his bed. He barely noticed Lylia slide in beside him before sleep overtook the farmer.

Dreams soon invaded his slumber, pleasant interludes in which he was able to help the sick and maimed everywhere learn how to heal themselves or bring burnt lands back to bloom. Uldyssian watched the world become a paradise and its people reach a point of perfection undreamed…

Then, in the midst of the harmony and love, calamity broke out. Fissures opened in the ground and even the sky developed cracks. It was as if his home was hidden inside a vast egg now being broken open by something
outside
.

And in the next breath, the heavens filled with fiery-winged figures and from the fissures rose monstrous, scaled hordes. The two fearsome armies immediately collided with one another, with Humanity caught in the middle. Men, women, and children were torn to bloody gobbets by the unnoticing warriors of both sides. Thousands lay strewn dead in an instant.

“Stop!” Uldyssian roared. “Stop!”

None of the combatants paid heed to his cries and when he sought to use his gifts to make them listen, nothing happened.

“They’re all over us!” shouted Achilios, suddenly at his side. “Do something! I’m almost out of arrows!” Indeed, the archer had apparently managed to bring down nearly a hundred of the fighters, but still the tide flowed toward where Uldyssian and he stood. “This is your fault!” Achilios insisted, growing angry. “Your fault!”

“No!” Uldyssian whirled from the hunter and his accusations, only to find Serenthia gazing at him from afar. She stood surrounded by a sea of furious warriors, oblivious of the surmounting threat to her. Blades already slashed past her head, but all Cyrus’s daughter did was continue to stare at Uldyssian as so many in the audience had this day.

“I have faith in you,” she declared. “I do—”

An ax already scarred from heavy use neatly severed her head. Blood poured forth like a fountain from the open neck. As Serenthia’s head toppled over, Uldyssian saw that the look of trust yet remained.

“Serry!” he choked. Uldyssian tried to push forward, but a hand suddenly pulled him back. He looked at the one preventing him from reaching her and discovered it to be none other than his own brother…but a Mendeln of the likes of which made him shiver.

“Do not worry about her anymore,” the cadaverous figure intoned without emotion. Mendeln’s face was drawn and gray and he seemed half-shadow. A dark cloak surrounded him, a cloak that twisted and turned despite no apparent wind. “Do not worry about her, anymore. She’s one of mine, now.”

Only then did Uldyssian see that there were figures behind Mendeln, faces he recognized from both Partha and Seram. However, they, like Mendeln, had drawn faces and, when he looked close, jagged wounds and torn flesh.

They were all dead.

Having made his declaration, Mendeln drifted past Uldyssian as if a shade himself. In his wake, the corpses of the innocent rose to follow. The fighting separated around Serenthia’s body, which still stood despite its death.