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The rain fell violently on the temple roof, drizzled down the slanted tiles creating large rivulets through the dust, only to flow onto the courtyard, very much like a waterfall. It mixed with the dry dirt and turned the area into one large mud-filled puddle, before it could properly sink into the ground. The patter of the heavy drops created a rhythmic beat while the woosh of the waterfall sounded like a melody. A tune formed by nature and the man-made structure, a blending of ancient and modern. Beautiful in its own way. A tribute to a world in harmony. Architects had given the monastery an organic appearance in order for it to meld with the wild nature surrounding it. Protruding from the side of the mountain with the natural stream flowing from high above, through the building and down towards the ocean several miles away. It lay secluded among the large expanse of leaves and trees, hidden from the world to allow the monks to engage in their sacred rituals of pleasing the gods and keep the world in balance. When the rains came it kept the buildings more secluded as the curtain of tight drops of water created a mist nearly impossible to penetrate by vision alone. Only dark outcrops on the mountainside hinted at the sanctity inside.
The wet season, always expected, still seemed to catch everyone by surprise. The dry one that preceded felt prolonged and extended by the end and the blessed rain, which to the farmers came as a salvation, also washed away homes of those ill prepared for it. The Haugarian Kingdom only had those two seasons, each of them lasting a year each. Both the wet and the dry had its casualties, heat exhaustion or drowning, but it was an everlasting cycle the haugarians had grown accustomed to since they settled the island. It shaped a person, being on the brink of death by the end of each season, for different reasons.
Father Prolur watched the process from the sanctuary of the roof covering the porch of the temple. He let out a deep sigh, for he needed to run across the muddy courtyard to the monastery proper. Why they had not built the two buildings as one structure he would never understand. He detested rain, more than anything in the world harkening back to his army days when he had been caught in his share of storms. He could still feel the uncomfortable sensation of walking for miles, sopping wet all the way down to the bone, boots filled with mud, and the physical problems it would bring. Yes, he had seen the feet of men afflicted with rot from constant damp. Listened to the grating sound of a surgeons saw cutting through bone and the cries that didn’t quite drown it out.
He ran fingers through his dry, graying hair, took a deep breath, and pulled his hood over his head. Making sure it went far down his forehead before rushing out into the downpour.
The wind seemed to increase as soon as he got out into the open— a crack as if a tree had broken in half just above his head roared through the air for a moment. The wind and patter of rain on the muddy ground were soon all that he could hear. They created a suggestive rhythm, an organic melody mesmerizing him. He paused to remove his hood, ignoring the icy bite from the heavy drops of rain attacking his face, gazed up, and witnessed a bolt of lightning flash across the dark sky as if a giant stood there swinging a blade to split the darkness in two. It left him blinded for a moment, leaving a white veil hiding the world from him. The song of the world transfixed him. Overpowered his sense of self preservation and want to remain dry. He embraced it all, every minute sound replacing the wildlife, who had fallen silent because of the approaching storm. It brought him back to the field of battle, that first time he heard the war cries, the clash of steel, the beat of horses’ hooves against unmuddied ground. He had loved it once, before another tune replaced the forcefulness of violence. The soliloquy of pain. It took over once the dust settled and never went away. It did something else to him, something he would never shake.
The water running into his eyes roused him from his momentary fugue state, and he moved across the courtyard again. This time with some difficulty since his feet were caught in the mud. Ungracefully, he leaped onto the porch on the opposite side from the temple, his robes of crimson and gold, a wet mess, clinging to his body.
He shook his head, dispelling the excess water from his hair, and looked around once the world stopped spinning. All alone on the porch he felt confident none of the other monks had noticed his lapse in judgement, but why would they care. He always felt a great deal of insecurity when it came to the others in the monastery. Always assuming people talked about him if he passed others speaking in hushed voices in the dark corners of the building. Why would they? He’d ask himself. Why would he be the topic of any conversation? Still it entered his mind, and he withdrew from most social gatherings as to not enter situations where he might be singled out as the odd duck.
The porch ran around the entire monastery, and the roof was supported by rows of columns carved from marble by monks of long ago when the country was first founded some said. By order of the founder—King Tieto the first—the same people claimed. When the island was still wild and untamed, and the King ordered temples be built in his great ancestor’s honor.
There was only one entrance to the monastery, which made defending it easier. It consisted of a set of double doors, so tall that they reached the ceiling. On the doors were carvings of the first king kneeling before a large sword that stuck into the ground. Corpses of slain enemies decorated the ground under the king and the sword emitted a ray of light which shone upon the kneeling figure.
Prolur moved to the right side of the great doors where a life-sized statue of the god of war—Haugar—stood.
The effigy stood almost seven feet tall, muscular with ancient runes spiraling down its arms. In the right hand, it held a sword very similar to the one depicted on the doors. Broad and long with a heavy crossbar where the edges were turned upward to resemble claws, an unruly weapon for most who would attempt to use it. The statue of Haugar was missing its left hand as well as the right eye. According to the legends, the deity had lost both body parts battling the dreaded Tirans—the godlike creatures who controlled the world before the gods emerged from the West. In the place of its left hand, the statue wore a three-pronged iron claw, and where the eye had once been only a gaping hole remained. The artist who carved the statue from a block of red stone had managed to create the opening so deep that one could scarcely see an end to it. Maybe there was none, only a magical void. Though the Haugarians refused to believe in the practice of magic, believing it to be a weakness. Raw strength and skill of mind the only way to solve problems. Visitors to the temple placed a coin in the missing eye by way of an offering.
Prolur touched the right hand of the red stone statue, bowed his head, and quickly recited a prayer of protection. He then kissed the cheek of Haugar, smoothed down from thousands of men doing the same over thousands of years. He grabbed one of the brass handles on the double doors and slowly the right one opened. The dampness in the air caused the door to swell and offer more resistance than usual and he struggled reminding him how weak old age and inactivity had made him.
He only managed to open it slightly, so he flattened himself as much as possible and snuck inside, pulling the door shut behind.
The door opened up to the main corridor which acted as the main receiving area for guests made from gray marble, with very few windows, allowing just enough daylight to peek inside. This left it a sort of dusk at all times which felt less than inviting. This seemed to be the purpose of it as well and a method to keep the monks on their chores. At the end of a long stretch of hallway stood the door leading to the living quarters of the haugén, the head of the order.
Decorating the wall between the tiny windows stood busts depicting former haugéns and other high priests, known as the allguén. sharing the space with large paintings of the kings of old.
The men in the paintings all bore a striking resemblance to the red statue outside. According to the lore of the kingdom, the first king, Tieto de Haugar, had been the bastard son of the god of war, naturally making him a demigod. The kings of the land, being ancestors of Tieto, therefore also bore the divine lineage. Knowing this made the people in the kingdom of Haugar feel more important and somewhat overconfident—who would not be when your king is the bearer of divine blood. What they were not aware of was that the original family line of de Haugar died only a few generations after Tieto I and that several families had ruled the kingdom since, all of them claiming to be bearers of this sacred essence.
It did not matter to Prolur which family ruled the land as long as a good king on the throne sat on the throne. Unfortunately, the current king was not one of the better ones. He had assassinated his brother and banished his nephew, the rightful heir, to place himself on the throne. A sordid tale if there ever was one, not uncommon among the nobility. In fact, some might call it the natural order of things. His mother often sang to him of such nefarious deeds when she put him to bed as a babe. Those were songs of legend. Tales from ancient times, that may or may not have happened. The lore of the land. The melody dark and ominous, scary when paired with the dimly lit bedroom of their home constructed from salvaged wood in the heart of the derelict part of the city. The wind chimed in with her singing, the chill touch caressing him in time with her touches. He could hear those tunes on the cold wind as it blew in from the sea, especially when the rainy season approached.
Prolur knocked on the door to the haugén’s room, to his surprise following the somber melody in his head and waited. The door opened slowly, and a young unwashed novice dressed in the traditional dirty white robes stuck out his head. Prolur recognized the tired eyes of a man not getting enough sleep. Part of being a novice entailed being at the beck and call of one’s masters. It was designed to wear one down in order to mold you into a dutiful monk. This young man looked ready to pass out from weariness as he leaned his head against the thick wood.
“Father Prolur?” he asked in a quiet voice. Prolur nodded and forced himself to smile, an action that had become increasingly difficult to perform as the years passed by. “He is expecting you.” The novice opened the door completely, and Prolur stepped inside the room.
Only the floor was marble in here, except for the four ornamental pillars standing in the corners pretending to support the ceiling—a pretense which fooled no one as it was clear that they never quite reached it. The room was not as large as one would have thought at first, but it was filled with secret passages and hidden storage areas, and off to the right side a door led to the inner sanctum of the haugén’s private living quarters. Every inch of the room, built in a dark wood, was decorated in some form: statues of gods, kings, and monks. Even the ceiling bore carved figures depicting Tieto I setting foot on the island, which he would claim as the Kingdom of Haugar. A nation dedicated to war.
In the center of the room, toward the back, stood a desk covered in scrolls and candles, and behind the desk, dipping a quill into a bottle of ink, sat Saulo Deo, haugén of Tieten, the main monastery in the kingdom and he the highest of the monks of the order.
He sat completely wrapped up in his work and took no notice of Prolur. The novice coughed quietly and caused Saulo Deo to raise his gaze and make him aware that his guest had arrived. He smiled, rubbed his bald head, and stroked his gray beard, before rising to greet Prolur. The haugén, a few years his junior, rose from his seat with some difficulty. His back hunched from years bent over a writing desk, his weathered skin looking slightly greenish in the candlelight and yellowed teeth made him look ancient.
He looks like he’s ready to be hanged upon on of the walls in the main gallery, Prolur thought. I thought the wear and tear of battle ruined your body, but apparently lifelong service to Haugar did more damage.
“Thank you, Brother Prolur, for coming by.” He snapped his fingers at the novice. “Maux, bring us some wine!” His voice rough and dry. Like the sound of pen scratching on parchment. He pointed to a chair opposite him and Prolur sat before Saulo Deo could return to his seat once again. “How was today's ritual?” he asked.
“Much as it always is, Your Eminence. Nothing changes,” Prolur replied.
“I am so pleased that you agreed to take care of these late-night canots. They were quite arduous for us,” Saulo Deo shuffled a few papers around the desk in an absentminded way. “None of the brethren have, how shall I put this, your musical inclinations.”
“Just doing my duty, Your Eminence.” Prolur secretly enjoyed the rituals—the strict sameness of each evening and the low, melodic voices of the brethren filling the vaulted ceiling of the temple. The gentle sound of harmonious song had always managed to sooth him. He had wished to be a bard as a child. To pen his own ballads and verses. With a lute made from old, discarded junk, he wandered the alleys and played for coin. He was not without talent, but fate had other plans in store for him and instead of wandering from villages and towns to entertain, he would bring war and destruction.
“I wish I could go back to those days when I had time to perform them myself or help our people,” Saulo Deo looked at him., then threw up his hands. “Alas, I have to complete this translation of the Holy Scripture for our brethren on the mainland.” Saulo Deo sighed as his gaze fell on the thick tome on his desk—the Holy Book of Haugar. The Haugarian language did not differ much from the languages closes to them on the mainland some of the more guttural sounds were difficult to mimic for an untrained throat and a translation was important in order to spread the true message of the text.
Maux, a large young man dressed in the white robes of a novice, entered the room carrying a tray with a jug and two wine glasses, all made from crystal. He put the glasses on the desk and poured the crimson liquid into them. When he was done, Saulo Deo waved him away before raising his glass to smell the fermented grape.
“Pardon me, Your Eminence,” Prolur said in a stern tone. “I do not mean to be rude in any way, but I know you did not summon me here to discuss your work on the Holy Scripture, to drink wine, or even to commend me on my work. What can I do for you? That is all I wish to know.”
Saulo Deo paused his sniffing for a moment and looked at Prolur. He waited a few seconds, took a sip, and then proceeded to put the glass back on his desk. The soft clink of glass upon hard wood echoed off the vaulted ceiling ever so slightly. Making an unfinished melody in Prolur’s ears.
“Well, yes, you are correct.” Saulo tried to find the right words. “As you are aware, His Highness, King Crauco, has begun rounding up and executing all known supporters of the former Prince Quale.”
“Yes, I have heard this,” Prolur replied.
“The king does not believe in the ancient adage of keeping his enemies closer than his friends, and he has, therefore, sent many suspected loyalists away to the edges of our kingdom. As opposed to those he is convinced are against him.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Prolur scratched his beard.
“Since you were one of the most outstanding generals in our army prior to becoming a monk here, the king has marked you as one of the likeliest suspects when it comes to Quale loyalists in the kingdom. Because of your standing—both historically and religiously—he thought it best to not arrest you without evidence. Instead, with the assistance of His Holiness, Boulo Allguen, he has ordered you to be transferred to Saurania. To a new temple close to the city of Barnavor.”
“So, I am to be sent away?” Prolur looked accusingly at Saulo Deo, who seemed a little nervous.
“I am so very sorry, but it is beyond my control. The king believes that you will be less of a threat to him if you are far away—across the ocean, in fact.” Saulo Deo sounded deeply apologetic. “Or would you rather risk beheading?”
“When do I leave?”
“There is a ship waiting for you tomorrow, and it has been decreed that you be on it.”
“I guess there is nothing I can say that would change this.” Prolur rose from his seat and raised his wine glass. “I hope you will excuse me, Your Eminence. I must pack for my journey tomorrow.”
Saulo Deo nodded and rose to his feet in turn. He stuck out his glass, and Prolur met it with his own. “I wish you the best of luck, and may Haugar and all the gods guide you on your way.”
They both emptied their glasses, and as Prolur turned to leave, Saulo Deo halted him by calling out his name.
Prolur stopped in his tracks and turned towards the haugén.
“Are His Majesty’s suspicions unfounded?”
“Does it really matter?” Prolur asked and left the room before he could hear the answer.
***
Prolur leaned against the marble wall in the corridor. It was late and a novice had already walked through to extinguish the few candles that lit the place. If the narrow path had been gloomy before, it was now completely dark.
Now the only light came from the erratic flashes of lightning that escaped through the windows, lighting up the stone and the painted faces of past kings and priests.
Prolur stared into the black nothingness, trying to gather the thoughts in his head. During his days in the army, he had only followed the code, the unquestionable loyalty to the king, whoever it may be. He was not interested in revolt; he was tired of war, of seeing blood on his hands. In any case, to have the dark cloud of a king’s suspicion hovering over you was not an ideal situation. He knew that leaving the island would be the best thing he could do. Truth be told, he was tired of it all. In Saurania, he would still be in the kingdom, but at least he would be far away from the center of it. Away from power struggles and backstabbing nobles.
He opened the door to enter the monastery from the haugén’s corridor just as thunder exploded above him and lightning flashed. It was dangerously close. Maybe it was warning him. Something sent to him from the god of thunder Thaugmal. He had never put much faith in portents and divine intervention.
“If you look for signs, you will find them,” he mumbled to himself as he closed the door behind him.
The windowless corridors of the monastery were almost completely dark, save for a few candles still burning on the walls, placed there to guide his way. The haugén retired earlier than his monks did and the extinguishing of light outside his quarters signified this to presumptive visitors.
It was late and final prayers had already begun. Prolur could hear the chanting from the other brothers, mixed with the rumbling thunder from outside. It sounded immensely powerful. He stopped in the open doorway to the main hall of rites, which was well-lit and filled with almost fifty monks dressed in gray, all kneeling in front of a statue of Haugar, dressed in a similar fashion.
Prolur stood there still, bowed his head out of respect for his fellow brothers, and simply allowed the deep baritone wash over him. He imagined the tremble of collectives male voices surround him like the curling smoke of a fire. The rhythmic chanting of the words of Haugar’s prayer permeating through his skin and making the hairs on his neck stand on end. Slowly he opened his eyes and smiled at the good work he had done. They had sounded atrocious when he first heard them. It had been no easy task to whip them into shape, but his experience as a soldier had aided him in this venture. He sighed and then he moved on down the dark and cold corridor, away from the warm glow of harmonious chanting.
The actual monastery was not as fancy as the first hallway. Most of it was not made up of marble but out of normal gray stone. The building was never heated or properly lit, and none of the rooms had doors. All this was to remind the brothers to be humble and that their service to the gods was to take up most of their time, not staying warm or admiring architecture. Apparently this did not pertain to the haugén or the allguén, the latter being the supreme religious leader in the entire kingdom. Prolur has seen the White Temple in the capital. A large white marble palace with a golden spire, pointing straight to the heavens and a ruby covered dome covering the central structure, commonly referred to as the Eye of Haugar. Excessive splendor at its best.
Most of the monks of the order were not running through the corridor because they were pious people who had decided to dedicate their lives to the patron god of the kingdom. The two most common ways to join one of the many orders in Haugar were either that you were an orphan who had been left in the care of the monks—once this had happened, one very seldom left the protective, yet drab walls of the monastery—or you choose to join to avoid going to war. This reason guaranteed that you could never leave because the army always waited on the outside to draft you once you tried. It was mandatory to serve at least five years in the army for men, no matter one’s age. There was only one way out—becoming a monk or a nun, for even women had to do their military duty, but then only for a year.
With these reasons in mind, it was not strange that few monks performed their daily chores or rituals with any true enthusiasm. There was, of course, always exceptions to the rules, even among the monks. There were the ones who had chosen the road divine, not to save themselves or because they had been forced into it by fate. Rather, they had either been given a sign when they were young or were only too happy to dedicate their existence to worship and obedience. To them, the endless rituals every other hour and the tedious work in the gardens or fields only came as a blessing, and they performed it all with so much joy that they were almost hated by the other brothers. These were the men who became haugéns and kept the order, making sure that the less devout brothers continued the fine traditions of work and prayer.
As Prolur quietly wandered down the dark corridor towards his room, he could hear the quick footsteps of someone coming up behind him. One of the enthused few, he thought.
“Where are you headed, Father Prolur?” someone called out to him.
He was slightly startled when he turned around because standing so close to him that their noses almost collided stood a man younger than him, with sandy hair and sharp blue, enthusiastic eyes.
“Excuse me, Father Rauman,” Prolur replied as he took a few steps back. “I did not mean to interrupt the prayers.”
“You did not interrupt,” Rauman answered. “I was expecting to see you pass by when you did not show up for the rites.”
“What can I do for you? I am on my way to my quarters,” Prolur said as he began to turn, obviously not interested in the brother’s answer.
“I will accompany you.” Rauman stepped up next to Prolur, and they began to walk. “It would appear as if Thaugmal is on the rampage tonight.”
“It would appear so.” Prolur’s reply was short and uncaring.
They walked in silence until the open doorway into Prolur’s room was visible. “How did the late-night canto proceed?” Rauman asked cheerfully.
“Very well,” Prolur answered as he halted in front of his room. He turned to look at his fellow monk. “Father Rauman, I do not wish to appear rude, but I am somewhat pressed for time, so if you could please tell me why you followed me I would greatly appreciate it.”
Rauman looked at him for a moment and then smiled. “Forgive me; I just thought you might need some company.”
“That was very kind of you. Now if you would be so kind as to let me pack my belongings in solitude.” Prolur bowed and stepped into his room.
“Are you taking a trip?” Rauman asked, making Prolur halt once again.
“His Eminence, Saulo Deo, has, by proclamation from the king, assigned me to the new monastery in Saurania. I am to leave tomorrow morning.”
They were both quiet for a moment. As Prolur walked over to his armoire, the only piece of furniture in the room apart from his meager bed, Rauman cleared his throat.
“I am very sad to hear this, Brother Prolur.” It sounded as if he was choking on his own words. “On the other hand, I am very happy for you.”
“Why is that?” Prolur had opened warped door of the armoire with some difficulty and was staring at the few worldly possessions he owned. The wood smelled wet and dank and the scent had the nasty trait of permeating any article of clothing he placed inside it.
“Not many of us get to see the world outside. Of course, you have already seen the mainland during your army days.”
“It is not very impressive,” Prolur said as he sat himself down on his bed, pausing a moment to determine if the rickety frame would collapse from the weight of his body. He continued to stare into the depths of the closet. “It is the same people with the same problems and the same sense of right or wrong.”
“I only wanted to say that it is a great honor to be part of a completely new branch. I wish for it myself someday... maybe.” Rauman fell silent and stared intensely at the silent figure sitting on the bed. Once he understood that he would receive no response he turned.
He had joined the monastery as a young boy of barely eight—he had promised his dying mother he would. All his life, he had been taught to love and worship the gods—first and foremost, Haugar, the god of war. For years, dull army dodgers and orphans unaware of the world outside had surrounded him. He had therefore been very excited when he heard that Sir Prolur di Sangior, heroic general of the kingdom, was joining the convent. Finally, there would be someone who had seen life to talk to and learn from. He had tried so very hard to be his friend, but Father Prolur was always so quiet and wanted to be left alone more than anything. Even though he was rejected time and time again over the years, he kept trying to befriend the solitary man.
“Goodbye, Brother Prolur,” he said. “May Haugar keep you safe on your journey!” He did not bother to wait for a reply; he walked off, heavy-hearted.
Prolur was staring, not at the two grey robes that, apart from the ceremonial ones, were his only permitted outfits. He was staring at a brown bag that lay in the corner.
He got up off the bed with great pain and grabbed the bag which had an opening at the top pulled tight by a drawstring, bearing the symbol of the Haugarian seal.
He slowly opened it, turned it upside down, and let the contents fall upon the hard wooden board that served as his mattress. He knelt beside it and began to rummage through the objects. They were all his possessions from his army days. He picked up his old dagger, his black leather boots, and his chain mail. With both of his hands, he picked up his helmet, the only part of his beautiful silver and gold armor that he still owned. It had been specially made to fit his head, and the visor was shaped to resemble the face of a hawk. He put the helmet aside and picked up his ceremonial tunic. It was black with silver trim, and the seal of the kingdom covered the heart. On the left shoulder, it bore his family crest—a yellow shield with a black hawk sitting on the hilt of a sword. His family motto written below the crest: Vicigio a procucho. Victory through blood.
He looked back at the closet and saw his most cherished belonging: his blade. He walked over to it and gently picked it up as if it were a babe. As he did so, he knocked something over. He bent down to see what it was.
An old bottle of his favorite wine rocked rolled towards his feet. He had picked up several bottles during the Dourian campaign ten years earlier and this appeared to be the last one. One that somehow had escaped his great thirst.
He had always had a weakness for wine and found that it numbed him just enough so he could sleep soundly through the night. He grabbed the pear-shaped bottle by the neck, leaned the sword against his bed, and sat down next to it. He let his left hand caress the cold steel like a man would touch an old lover. Familiar, yet nervously. The sword was not very extravagant, not like some of the pieces belonging to the generals he had served alongside. It only bore the motto of his family, carved close to the hilt. A simple and lethal instrument, which was all he had ever needed on the battlefield. Once they had been one entity. The steel and extension of his arm and power, the way Haugar’s twisted trident replaced his hand. An eerie sensation of wholeness came over Prolur as his trembling fingers wandered up and down the still sharp edge.
Slowly he opened the bottle of Dourish wine and closed his eyes as the familiar scent rose from it. Like his weapon, it cast a familial shadow upon him. If the sword was his old lover then the wine his wife, his rock, his home, that voice whispering in his ear at night. It told him everything would be fine, as long as he always returned to her. He put the bottle to his lips as if kissing her and let the sweet liquid enter his mouth, wash linger there as his tongue explored every morsel of what it had to offer. Swallowing it down the memories of battlefields, grown men crying, the killing, the burning of homes, all of his crimes and sins came crashing against him. He was the cliffs of Saurania and the recollection of his past waves of Haugarian soldiers crashing against him. Then there was something else. The sounds of war melted away and the echo of an old melody crept out of the darkness of his cell. Barely audible at first, as if someone was humming it in another room, then stronger and by a voice he remembered from long ago. She appeared before him, but he could only stare at the hem of her ornate dress. She was singing to him. The tune he had sung to her the last night they were together. He head on his chest, him stroking her hair. Cursed be the cruel wars that they must take thee from me. For wherever this battle shall take me. My final thought will always be of thee. He could not bear it at all. Everything he had tried to forget for such a long time. His reasons for cloistering himself, away from the world now came to haunt him again.
He raised the bottle once again and drank until everything went black. No more memories.