The Truth Reality Obscures
The Oln’s Majesty came to a halt as its massive anchors gouged and tore at the reef and seabed far below. Admiral Laventis watched from the rail as the dilapidated fishing boat manoeuvred close to the Majesty. A rope ladder was dropped.
Filled with the purpose of putting an end to the interference of the Kraken ships, the admiral had scaled the mast to determine the best course of attack on their positions, but he had spotted the fishing boat with the unfurled sail bearing the Red Antlers of his house. He guessed the poorly daubed image was hurriedly painted, the red paint streaking down the length of the sail, making it look like the antlers were bleeding. There was no mistaking what the sail meant. It was the guest he had been waiting for, a guest with the potential for a far greater victory than capturing or destroying five Kraken ships.
With a signal from Captain Joran Ulftonne, ropes were cast down to the boat to secure around the two Aksson prisoners against any attempt to escape into the water as they climbed to the deck of the ship.
“I must admit I had my doubts they would manage to secure the baron’s son. Maybe they knew what it means to work for you,” said Joran, still keeping his eyes on the operation.
“Oh, they are not working for me,” Sebastian said. “They are working for a glory greater than themselves. Something worth more to them than all the gold I would have offered. I told you this was once part of the ancient Zadesti homeland. They have been waiting to take it back for over three hundred years. Their revered prophet, Enirax Windruler, foresaw this very day and predicted, when the Zadesti moored their ships once more in the ‘Shattered Land’, that it would signify the rebirth of their great civilisation. So, for the Zadesti, the capture of Aksson is providence. For them, it is destiny itself.”
“You also told me you do not believe it,” said Joran.
Sebastian noted an unfamiliar tone in the captain’s voice. “Because he was right about the fall of Zadesti civilisation after he was gone,” said the admiral, “Enirax’s prophecies were eagerly sought by the Zadesti who were left. Although I would bet his prediction was more likely vanity at how important he was to the Zadesti. There are also Gaelgaran accounts of this man. It is the portrait of a confidence trickster. A man who was down on his luck until he discovered religious groups could seek voluntary tithes from businesses. He claimed he could receive visions of the future from Oln, and he began speaking in the square about the future greatness of the Zadesti civilisation and how an empire would be born when the Zadesti ruled the seas. Soon he tricked Zadesti clan leaders into believing he could predict weather, storms, successful raids, and all manner of other matters. The truth is, an astute individual could predict these things without the help of visions, so no, I do not believe it. I might decry the Zadesti’s primitive attempts to find purpose, but that does not mean I do not find it useful.”
“And is there no room for new ideas in your new free world? What if Enirax was a prophet for Oln? Perhaps it was all Oln’s will, the ambition and vision of your House would unite with the determination and fortitude of the Zadesti.”
“The new free world is the new idea,” said Laventis. “I have promised the Zadesti nothing but an opportunity to take their homeland, and if they can take it from me, they are welcome to it.” Laventis turned his shoulder to the captain, signalling the end of the conversation.
Joran went to move away when Sebastian raised his voice. “According to my studies, Enirax was nothing more than an old fool who was ancient and mad by the time he began spouting his so-called prophesies,” he said, with the hint of a smile. “It does not matter if I believe it. What is important is the Zadesti believe it. Save for a few of their more stubborn clan-lords, they call me ‘Wrack of the Squall’, mentioned in the writings of the old goat. They have awaited the one ‘not Zadesti born’, destined to reunify them and deliver victory over their enemies. Who am I to tell them how ridiculous it all sounds? It would feel like beating a dog for its stupidity. Seems a little cruel.”
From the rail, Sebastian watched as the men were brought from the hold of the boat. The younger one ignored the directions of his captor and rushed port side to better see the attack on the docks and the fires belching black smoke into the sky. It was short lived, however, as the Zadesti, Belsamu grabbed the man by the shoulders and threw him to the deck, kicking his back before securing the rope around the man’s chest.
The dishevelled prisoners groped at the rope ladder as they climbed, barked at by their captors. It had taken a long time for the prisoners to mount the bulwark, the older one toppling to the timbers of the main deck.
Sebastian glanced at his captain, which was enough for Joran to be spurred into action. “Separate them,” came Joran’s order to two of the waiting crewmen as he descended the stairs of the top deck. The younger man was demanding to speak with whomever was in charge.
Joran regarded the men and ignored the demands. “Raise anchors, come about full, return to the main fleet,” he shouted.
Once Rullo had been led away, Sebastian approached the younger man and the Zadesti surrounding him. He stalked toward them, noticing the prisoner’s swollen jaw, bleeding lip, and the dark drying blood caked around his wrist and hand.
“[As ordered, we watched the house of the leader-],” the Zadesti began in his own language, interrupted when Sebastian lashed out at his jaw with his fist. The bald man was more surprised by the attack than he was injured, but the punch caused him to reel backwards. There was a moment of quiet as the Zadesti crewmen waited to see what would happen.
The bald and scarred Zadesti locked hate-filled eyes on the admiral but made no move to retaliate. He let out a frustrated roar.
“[You were told not to harm the prisoner],” hissed Sebastian. “[Stay aboard. Eat, drink. Soon you will be landing with the others and will get the chance to spill the blood of your enemies].”
Belsamu’s ugly face twisted into a sinister smile, showing rotten teeth and empty gums. He signalled to the other Zadesti to follow below deck.
Before any of them could move, however, the prisoner spun on his heels at the Zadesti, aiming his interlocked fists at his face. He connected solidly with the same part of the jaw Sebastian had, knocking a rotted tooth from Belsamu’s mouth. The distraction allowed him to grab the large, unsheathed knife in the man’s belt. He turned again and lunged at Sebastian.
Ulrik was only able to slash at Sebastian’s defending right hand before the large Zadesti yanked him back on the rope, so hard the muscles in his back tore. A boot pressed on the injured wrist of the hand still holding the knife. Sebastian leaned down and pried it from Ulrik’s grasp.
Leaving his foot in place, the admiral levelled the weapon over Ulrik’s throat. The blood from Sebastian’s hand dribbled down the blade of the knife until it dripped onto Ulrik’s skin.
“Well, wasn’t that exciting?” Sebastian quipped. “It is good to see your spirit has not been beaten out of you by these beasts.” He held up his left hand to show the linen bandage and the maroon stain across his left palm. “Now I shall have a matching set, just like Oln himself,” said the admiral, increasing the pressure of his boot on Ulrik’s injured wrist.
“It seems like you might need some time in the brig to get used to things here. It is a pity, because we need you to persuade your father to lower the defences of the city, and for every moment we cannot reach an accord the attack will continue and more will die.” Sebastian gestured across the waves to the tower-ships launching flaming spheres, the ships preparing landing craft filling with soldiers, and fires burning in the city. “This little display of heroism will cost some of your people their lives. Think on it until we speak again.”
“Call off the attack,” pleaded Ulrik. “I am your prisoner. It is clear you have gone to great lengths to ensure it. Stop the attack and we can speak together. You have shown your might and capability. Why continue to kill the people of Aksson while I am prepared to listen to you?”
Sebastian regarded his prisoner for a moment. “You should have started with those sentiments. Take him away,” the admiral ordered.
“No. Wait. Stop the attack. Tell me what you want of me. Call it off,” Ulrik implored as he was dragged from the main deck. He made a desperate lunge for the bulwark of the ship before being hauled back a second time.
On seeing the attempted escape, Sebastian called to his prisoner, “Do not forget, Radsvinn the Younger, the sun is setting and neither Oln’s Eyes nor the stars will be shining on us tonight. As your city continues to burn, my forces need only aim where there are no flames to achieve the total destruction of Aksson. Their lives are in your hands.”
Sebastian had studied the reigns of tyrannical lunatics who ruled by fear and intimidation. Their reigns were often brutal and short, sometimes all traces of their existence destroyed once the people inevitability rose against them, wiping all but a few accounts from the histories. He had also studied the benevolent and peaceful times in the various kingdoms’ histories. Peace made countries soft, weak, and ripe for the taking by an aggressor. His study of the histories of the world taught Sebastian there was a never-ending cycle of civilisation, regardless of nation, religion, enlightenment, or savagery. It was always the same sequence of events – conquest, consolidation, expansion, degeneration, and destruction. The Gaelgaran kingdom had been degenerating for many years. The corruption of the Temple of Oln had wrapped its tentacles tight around the crown and was pulling it to the depths. The time had come to seal both their fates.
Kitsvanna watched the Chapter House and the two monks outside the main entrance. The last time she had seen the grizzled old abbot, he was inside the large building at a window on the first floor. The Chapter House was being used to hold injured or wounded people who had been caught up in the violence at the docks. There was a steady flow of people entering and leaving the building.
“Getting in should be easy enough,” she said to Willem, who had freed Trapper from his shed. Once removed from captivity, the hound was calm.
“This is where Captain Drell and the others were taken. Maybe we could go check on them and find the abbot,” Kitsvanna said.
Willem nodded his agreement, looking past the girl. “Do not turn around, but I noticed the old crone and six men on the bridge, watching you as I came over here. One of them was signalling to someone else in the crowd who I could not see,” said the young Shielder. “I think we should get out of sight sooner rather than later.”
They moved through the doorway when one of the monks put a hand out to stop Kitsvanna. He regarded her with a raised eyebrow. She knew she appeared strange in her leather training cuirass and blue dress. The monk looked to the young man behind her holding a rope on the collar of the large hunting dog. Kitsvanna remained silent, preferring not to lie to the monk as to their purpose if she could avoid it. Instead, she smiled up at the man. Some other people were approaching the door, holding a makeshift litter with a young woman on it, her head bandaged. Their wet clothes and hair suggested they had just arrived. The monk waved everybody, including Kitsvanna and Willem, inside.
The Chapter House was once the main keep of the fort, the walls buttressed and strengthened by interior pillars. The main entrance hall was dark with minimal light from the rooms either side of it. Despite the efforts to mask the smell of the place with burning incense, Kitsvanna could still detect the hints of a pungent odour which reminded her of rotten fruit. There were lamenting, disembodied moans echoing around the stone hall, and a woman was crying. Monks shuffled around, most of them carrying rolls of linen for bandaging wounds.
“Yes?” came a voice from behind her. Kitsvanna was about to respond when she noticed the monk was addressing Willem.
“We are here to see our father. He was wounded in the neck. A bald man in chain, like this,” Willem said, tapping his chest. The monk walked by them without a word and indicated for them to follow him. The monk stopped at the entrance to a room at the far end of the hall. “He is in there with some others,” the monk explained. “May Oln hear the words of your heart,” he continued, before turning to attend to others.
As the pair entered, Kitsvanna saw the wounded captain lying on the wide plinth of a ruined column. It had been made comfortable with blankets draping to the floor, and the light was hitting the stonework in a way that, for a moment, looked to Kitsvanna like Drell was already dead and lying in state on a bier like her mother once was.
A monk who had finished dressing the wound of a man nodded at them before leaving the room. Trapper had been sniffing the surroundings and focused on Drell’s hand. When he started licking it, Willem pulled back on the rope until the dog was distracted by some other scent.
“The poor man,” Kitsvanna said. “When I was younger, he used to call me ‘m’ladybug’.” She thought it a strange thing to come to mind as she studied Drell’s ashen face and the blood-soaked wrappings around his neck. The captain’s chest still rose and fell. He looked cold but she was unable to grasp his hand. She was startled when Willem touched her shoulder.
“There is someone you need to talk to. Do you know where he might be?” asked the Shielder.
Kitsvanna looked to the entrance of the room. “The abbot was upstairs when I last saw him. Perhaps he is still up there. The main stairs are being blocked by two of the monks. If this place is anything like my father’s house, there will be stairs near the kitchens. Keep a look out while I search.”
Willem brought the dog back to the main hall while Kitsvanna moved from the entrance of the other rooms and peered inside. She found the kitchen by following the aroma of boiling vegetables, and she located a small spiralling set of steps at the back of the room. A tattooed monk was busy at the cook fire. She signalled to Willem to approach.
“When I say, release Trapper’s rope and let him loose into the kitchen. I will sneak past the cook when he is busy with the dog,” said Kitsvanna.
She could see from Willem’s face that he thought the success of the idea unlikely. Kitsvanna knelt beside the hound and scratched behind his ears. She pointed through the kitchen door. “Trapper, hunt,” she commanded.
The seemingly lethargic animal perked up and started to bark. It pulled hard on the rope, trying to get into the kitchen, skidding its paws on the smooth stone. Kitsvanna nodded at Willem, who released the rope and watched the animal bolt into the room. There were shouts from the monk and the clattering of cooking utensils and pots. Kitsvanna smiled.
“Now go get Trapper under control before he eats the monk,” she said.
Willem ran into the kitchen, calling the dog’s name. Kitsvanna crouched and scuttled by Willem, the monk and the dog, while Willem apologised to the monk for the mess caused. She reached the stairs and climbed them.
The pillars and buttresses inside the Chapter House continued to the ceiling of the upper hall, giving Kitsvanna numerous places to conceal herself as she moved along the corridor.
A warm scent of burning plant oils filled her nostrils with a pungent aroma, making her feel lightheaded. Like the rest of the stonework at the monastery, each stone had been carved to depict scenes from the life and stories of Oln. The images coalesced and climbed to an enormous bursting sun on the roof, which contained the effulgent and triumphant Oln, arms outstretched over a myriad of defeated god-time creatures and protecting the people of the world. The beauty of the carvings distracted the girl and almost too late did she notice the approaching voices.
Kitsvanna scrambled for the closest dark recess in the wall, unrolled her blanket, cast it over her head and crouched, hoping she could keep still enough not to be noticed.
The voices and steps passed by her, speaking of food levels remaining at the monastery. Some moments later a larger group passed along the corridor discussing the lighting of the night fires in the courtyard. From the conversations the monks were having, it occurred to Kitsvanna the monastery had been prepared for the arrival of the city folk. It sounded to her like there had been arrangements put in place days before the attack.
What this meant she was unsure of, but it suggested the monks were aware of what was going to happen and were in league with the attackers. The monks had shown nothing but care and compassion to all who had arrived and had turned none away.
Is this place an elaborate trap? she wondered.
For some time, there was no one around. She was contemplating moving again to find the abbot. When her impatience was nearly getting the better of her, a new pair of voices could be heard approaching.
“But, Father Abbot,” said a voice, “what will happen when the city succumbs to the fleet? We will not be able to provide food for everyone who comes here for any length of time. We only made provisions for a week at most, and not for so many people. There are already too many here as it is. We also cannot defend everyone should the fleet decide to turn their eyes toward us.”
“With the will of Oln, we will not be required to take care of all these good people for long, Calisus,” returned the older voice. “I have been given assurances the monastery and all under our protection will not be harmed. We will play our part in Oln’s plan and ensure the safety of the people here. When the dust has cleared and the fires burn out, they will be able to return to their homes and decide if they wish to embrace the teachings of the True Faith of Oln. We will be rid of the Temple and its corrupt ways. Now, I need you to take a walk again around the grounds and see if any other notable citizens have sought refuge here.”
“At once, Father Abbot, I will see to it. May your heart-words be heard.”
“As may your words, brother,” responded the older voice.
Kitsvanna listened as a set of sure footsteps went back the way they had come. The abbot was alone.
He has been given assurances. By whom? They all knew we were going to be attacked and did nothing, Kitsvanna thought.
She could feel the anger welling inside her. Images of the Shielders who had given their lives to save her and the others, the horror in the tunnels, the soldier earlier with his throat ripped out and the new image of poor Captain Drell on the plinth, began boiling in her mind.
He said, ‘other notable citizens’ – who is he talking about? He must know who I am. Kitsvanna tightened her left hand on the grip of her sword.
She assessed her options. She could attack the ancient and defenceless monk, but she knew the killing of any cleric in the service of Oln was one of the most grievous of sins. She preferred not having her soul damned for eternity. She could flee the monastery on Geist’s horse and make for the forest, but if it were a trap, she would have to warn the others, perhaps even everyone at the monastery, without knowing if anyone would believe her.
The thought occurred to her to threaten the abbot to find out just how much of a traitor to Aksson he was and what else he knew, but there was a risk other monks would show up. She wondered if she could choose to do nothing, to go back to the courtyard and remain silent. The thought was dismissed as cowardice and not the actions of the warrior she wished to be.
I wish Roslind were here, she would know what to do.
The blanket she was hiding under was yanked from her. She was looking straight into the face of the abbot, whose eyes darted to her sword. Kitsvanna attempted to raise her blade, but as she moved, the abbot moved faster, snaking out his hands to the pommel and twisting the sword from her grasp. Kitsvanna froze.
“You know, my child,” began the old monk, “even with my old ears it is easy to hear someone breathing in this chamber when all else is quiet,” said Abbot Dagda. He examined the sword. “Sneaking around, listening to other people’s conversations, carrying weapons where they are forbidden. Although I am sure Geist would approve, I, however, do not,” stated the monk with a hardened expression.
“What are we to do with you?” said Dagda, gripping the shortened rapier in his right hand. Kitsvanna’s stomach churned and her body shook as if screaming at her to run. She was certain she could escape the near-crippled old man. The girl glanced to the rear of the corridor – the open window was not too far away. Dagda observed the look and shouted but Kitsvanna had already clambered to her feet and dived past the monk into a forward roll. She could hear him calling after her but not what he was saying. She placed her hands on the ledge to vault out of the window. She swung herself out, scraping her elbows and forearms against the rough stone of the wall. The sudden pain in her arms caused her to lose her grip on the ledge. Kitsvanna clawed at the wall, searching for anywhere to grab, but she was falling too fast. Crashing to the ground on her side, she felt an explosion of pain as her head hit the stone and at least one rib snapped against her cuirass.
The breath had been forced from her and it felt torturous to replace it, but Kitsvanna strained to turn onto her front, still determined to flee. She could not stand. Her legs gave way with every effort. Her vision was dimming as blood flowed into her eyes. Using only her arms, she tried to keep moving. She would not be captured, she needed to get away, she needed to warn everybody about the monks, she needed to get back to the city and her family, she needed…to sleep.