10 YEARS LATER

  The owl had been nestled in the comfort of a tree fork when two things roused her from a good sleep. One was alarming, the other familiar, but no less demanding, and so she flew towards both ignoring nature's laws and her own nocturnal instincts.

  Small and white as a snow drop, she came gliding down from the highlands with a gust of wind pocketed under her wings and the sun on her back. Years had passed since last she flew in daylight, but the sound– the noise– insisted, come and see.

  A parade of horses and soldiers were moving slowly through the countryside, marching towards Baeor in sloppy unison. From this height the little bird could circle and observe the commotion unnoticed while remaining free of an archer’s bow and arrow, of which there were many, though she sensed no immediate harm.

  These men were tired. There was an air of celebration among them, the joy that comes after killing things. But they’d clearly spent a good portion of time beating and stabbing their fellow humans. With their armor rattling, and the unharmonious mob of their voices all speaking at once, she watched them spread out, soiling the land as they seeped into the valley that would eventually lead towards the village square.

  This was an invasion of nature which triggered her fight receptors. These humans, these men, brought destruction and nothing more. But there, standing on the distant crest of a hill was the other reason she’d left her roost. Phaedra– the girl who’d called to her.

  Some of the soldiers would later swear they’d seen a ghost, so curious was her form. But she was very much alive, and waiting patiently for her friend.

  Two more circles round the soldiers, and the bird closed with her silent wings, and bright black eyes sparkling in greeting.

  “Hello.” Phaedra whispered with the owl now perched on her shoulder. She nuzzled the soft feathers as a sense of calm settled over them, though it was short lived. The summer breeze tossed Phaedra’s skirts about her legs, and toyed with the cascade of wavy locs hanging loose down her back– she hadn’t the time to tie it up this morning. Seeing them first, before they could enter Baeor was far more important.

  Three days since the fight stopped, the girl thought, focused on the stream of silver armor and dark mounts. Three days of hearing the people mourn have called me from my woods…

  They brought the stench of death with them, dragging it along from the battle field to flood her nose and sour in her stomach. Who could they be? Phaedra scanned the line of soldiers littering the grass. There were hundreds of faces, but only one demanded her attention, and it was he who led the charge.

  At first glance she thought he might have been a general, but that assumption soon faded. He had the look of the south west about him— long straight nose, square jaw, dark eyes and hair as straight and black as a single quill stroke. There was a regality about his person that told her he was as much a common soldier as she was a helpless maid. If the man himself didn’t give it away, the impressive stallion he rode behind two banner-men certainly did.

  Their flag was red as dried blood and its sigil, a human heart pierced and presented on the tip of a sword with some lettering she could not read down its length, was one she also could not place.

  Riding tall, his chest puffed with pride, she knew instantly the sort of man he wished to be, but wondered what kind he truly was.

  The kingdom of Baeor was no prize, and no man had cared for it in an age. Not even its former king, who so recently met his end if the whispers were true.

  Phaedra hung her head for a moment, sorry for the loss of a peaceful, unremarkable man, who had ruled quietly and been altogether easy to forget. He’d governed over lands no one else wanted, except for those who called them home. So why this king was pleased to have acquired it was beyond her.

  Yes, she thought, narrowed eyes fixed on him. The man was indeed a king. Though he wore no crown along the victory route, he held the confidence of one born to rule, and she was certain he was unlike any this corner of the isle had ever seen before.

  Why or how he’d come, she could not say, but something had brought this darkness to them, something that felt vaguely familiar.

  The owl pushed off to circle the men once more and Phaedra watched, waiting to see if any of them might notice, but none did. They had their eyes fixed on the village ahead, lust and greed driving them forward.

  “You will be disappointed.” She warned before nodding farewell to the owl.

  Feeling the same urge to flee, Phaedra turned away, fairly certain it was time to abandon the village to its fate.

  “Will you give us protection spells?”

  The vacant stare of a newly made widow met Phaedra’s gaze as she turned. Behind the one who spoke, a small, sad group of women with a few babies and little ones not yet knee height waited. They kept their heads down in humility looking dirty and hungry; pitiful to be sure.

  "As you once offered me protection?" She asked, her stoic expression all the more fearsome when she confronted them with the past.

  "Wasn't me dear lady. I was nothing but a girl myself. I would have taken you in."

  "To work for you?"

  "Oh no dear lady of the wood, do I look so cruel as that?"

  "You all look the same to me," She forced herself not to smile.

  "Please, we come in secret while the pahre tends to his temple."

  Her jaw tightened as she glanced towards the village and back, sighing through her nose. "My presence is more fearful than a conquering army I see."

  Phaedra studied their weary faces, most of them prematurely aged from living such a difficult life. These poor folk would surely learn their lesson for driving a hungry child away and into the forest-- and very soon, given the look of the new arrivals.

  She felt pity for them and those they lost to the battle. The death of healthy fighters would only add to their hardships in this forgotten place, but their past deeds had come to haunt them, and she would not stand in the way of their comeuppance.

  Hiding behind their mothers skirts, a child's sooty face and wide eyes peeked out to stare up at her.

  Phaedra sighed, shaking her head at them. For the sake of the few kind souls who saved her when she was the same size, she would help.

  “Send two. No more,” She said, and the brave woman gave a nod of understanding. They knew where to find her, and she would not turn them away.

  Satisfied for now, the frightened group dispersed in complete silence and made their way towards town, leaving the witch to stand on the thill alone.

  ***

  The village of Baeor was a sorry dull sight that reeked of shit and poverty.

  The women ran, fearing for their virtue and the men who hadn’t come to fight hung their shameful heads.

  Word spread quickly. Their old ruler was overthrown, and his army wiped out in a single night. By the time the king and his men arrived, there was a healthy amount of fear already settling into the bones of his new subjects.

  Ulric gripped his horses' reins with gloved hands; leather fighting leather, and looked down his nose at them. How could anyone, much less an entire village live their life cowering in the filth like this ragged few. He was bothered by their existence, but they were needed.

  He and his men would stay here to recover their strength, which would require food and drink and other forms of– revitalization. The townsfolk would see to their demands, whatever they may be, or they would see themselves dead.

  Waiting for his arrival was Chancellor Morely who'd gone ahead of the procession and found the inn which he promptly commandeered it in the name of the king.

  “And, which name is that my liege?” The old inn keeper asked, bowing his head as he wiped grime from a table.

  Morely glanced sidelong at the man. “Kneel before your king, beg him, show you mercy for such insolence.”

  “My lord?” The old man started, confused as to what insult he’d given, and yet he lowered.

  Morely watched to see what Ulric would do. Would he smile, or would he give that look some had mistaken for pity instead of the repulsion it actually was.

  The old man shuffled so that he was bowing too Ulric. “My lord, please forgive me, my ignorance is an insult to your great name, it’s only that— we do not know it yet." He attempted to say more, but his words were stopped short by the impact of Morely’s boot kicking him over.

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  Ulric sighed. It was all so tiresome. So pointless. He walked further into the room. Baeor may as well have been at the edge of the earth. It seemed all they knew of him was the fear they felt now, which was a start, but as the first king in history to take the free kingdoms without a single battle lost, he expected them to at least have heard his name.

  Sitting at a dirty table, on a chair much too small for a man of his size Ulric gave Morely a nod. “Tell them who I am,” he said calmly. “Be quick.”

  “Yes my lord,” Morley replied, and bowed his head before he stepped over the inn keeper to bellow orders at the peasants hiding in dark corners of the tavern.

  “You will all kneel before your king,” he announced, and they obeyed though both men noted there were some who hesitated. “Hail, VanUlric Aldare, first of his name, conqueror and lord ruler over these lands and all lands. ”

  “Hail!” They echoed.

  Watching carefully, Ulric nodded approval and motioned for Morley .

  The chancellor was at his side, instantly taking mental note of all that his lordship required.

  In under an hour, the inn’s tavern was full of soldiers and enough ale and food to keep the men happy and the townsfolk angry, but too afraid to speak up.

  Rising from his seat in the middle of the crowded room, the king made his way towards the door, enjoying the cheers thrown by his warriors.

  Their admiration for his bravery on the battlefield was invigorating, their low bows and fists pressed to their hearts in salute, an incredible display of respect that Ulric drank in as he passed.

  “VanUlric, first of his name,” He repeated once outside looking up and down the empty town square. “King of every kingdom, and one cesspit called Baeor."

  He’d only claimed because he could, as was his divine right, and without it he could not build an empire. Give them one free territory and the people would abuse that freedom. Luckily, the true prize was no more than a week's ride south and he would not forget this fact as he stepped down into the thick mud and horse shit that passed for a road in this village.

  “My prize.” He mumbled through the warm haze of too much ale, and went around to the side of the inn.

  Leaning against the wall to relieve himself, his ears perked at the sound of women’s voices coming from around back.

  Ulric listened out of boredom to the women who were carefully roasting more meat for the soldiers.

  “She’ll give us something in the morning, I’m sure of it Rebecca.” One of them said softly. “We must choose who will go, for she’ll not turn her back on us now that we’ve left her alone.”

  “I don’t know,” The one called Rebecca said as she took her turn at the spit crank. “We ran her out of town when she were nothing but a child.”

  “That was so long ago, she’s forgiven us!” The other insisted, a little too enthusiastically. “And– she will not have forgotten the offerings.”

  Offerings? What sort of nonsense were they on about, he wondered.

  Ulric finished and stood still, listening for a moment before walking towards them, his movements unheard, even with the remains of his armor still strapped on.

  “But what do you think she can do against an entire army?” Rebecca asked.

  “Nothing.” The other replied.

  Ulric smiled. Nothing indeed.

  “It’s not them we have to worry about, it’s that king.”

  Rebecca's eyes flashed raw fear in the light of her cooking fire and Ulric felt a surge of pleasure. “Miriam, did you see him?” She asked.

  “I did. And I dare not look on him again. Sent chills down my spine to see a young man so fierce, riding up like a damned curse.”

  “A curse on this land to be sure.” Rebecca agreed softly, shaking her head.

  “But, he’ll be sorry for it if he steps too far off his land and onto hers.” Miriam shook with a hearty laugh, but Rebecca’s nervous giggle was short-lived.

  “Who do you speak of?” Ulric demanded.

  The girl gasped, and dropped to her knees in an instant.

  “My lord king! Have mercy!” Miriam pleaded, her large old hands pressed together. “We did not know you were there!”

  Ulric rolled his eyes, irritated by the natural fear ingrained in the common folk. It extended a conversation by one too many pleas. “Never mind that. Who were you speaking of?” He tried a calmer approach this time.

  The women were too afraid to reply, but he was not a patient man, and he had ways of getting answers. Marching up to the small one —Rebecca— who was still on her knees, he reached down, grabbed her by the arm and pulled her up, slipping his gloved hand around her throat. “You speak of someone who would threaten your king, and yet you will not say who?”

  Most expect a man like Ulric to have a booming voice, the sort to rattle trees and break mountains, but no. His was a soft baritone. Gentle enough to give a person hope, just before stripping it away.

  Rebecca was sobbing as she choked.

  “My lord, I will tell you, just please, let her go. She’s with child!”

  The king looked down on the woman clutching at his vice-like grip. Sighing with disgust, he let go. She crumpled to the ground like an empty sack.

  “Tell me.” He said, turning on Miriam.

  “It was just women’s gossip. Nothing to truly worry over my lord king. Please, we’ll have food a-plenty for you and your men very soon!” She rambled, as if food might distract him.

  He glared at her before taking a backwards step to Rebecca.

  Slowly, and with his eyes fixed on Miriams, he began to lower into a crouch. One arm rested on his knee, while the other hand opened. Long splayed fingers and a palm as big as the woman's face began to lower until the leather of his glove touched her skin and Miriam understood. “Tell me, or watch her take her last breath.” He pushed just slightly, showing how easily he could suffocate the girl.

  Struck silent with fear, old Miriam stood there slack jawed and shaking. Yet the horrors of men were no stranger to any woman, and she regained composure enough to speak on. “Just a witch my lord. A woods woman who works magic. That’s all…” she said in a whisper.

  Ulric took his hand away and looked from one woman to the other before laughing. “A witch?” He could hardly believe the ignorance of it all. “You’re serious?”

  “You see,” she exclaimed, feigning humor. “Just silly talk like I said! Women’s nonsense!”

  He clearly agreed. “You must think me a fool of a king– wasting time listening to the two of you.”

  “Oh no my lord not at all! You look the sort who knows quite a bit.” She said, mouth twitching with a forced smile.

  “Anyway, witches were wiped out generations ago.” He added, waving his hand so as to brush away her silliness. Ulric stood over the spit for a moment staring down at the crackling meat. “Women who possess magic are of the church. They are sacred. All the others are dead.” Protected by his glove, Ulric pulled a piece of meat from the nearly cooked roast. “Perhaps a cleansing is needed in these forgotten lands.”

  The night was so silent, the women could hear him chew.

  “Good,” he said, complementing the women as he sucked grease from the leather. Before going, Ulric reached down, ignoring the way Rebecca shrieked and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back up and onto her feet without an ounce of effort.

  “Hurry,” He told them as he sauntered away. “With that food,” he added absently, angry that the idea of forbidden magic intrigued him. “A witch,” he snorted at the absurdity and disappeared into the dark.

  ***

  Trotting down the long halls of the Rakáhn temple, a young, somewhat awkward and nearly out of breath, seminarian made his way toward the public areas of worship. His sense of urgency kept him moving, though the effort was exhausting for a man more prone to sitting with a book.

  By the time he entered the nave and found who he'd been sent to look for, the priest in training was gasping, though he tried to hide it.“A message, your holiness. Just…just arrived from… the south.” He managed.

  Pahre Cephus stood before the votive, slowly extinguishing the flames of sanctuary-candles lit by the other priests this morning. “Bring it to me.” He said and sat the metal snuffer on the votive’s ledge. Turning to receive the sealed letter, he hardly glanced at the messenger.

  The priest in training lowered in obeisance and held up the note, slipping away after Cephus plucked it from his hands.

  The old warlock read and slowly, a smile spread across his surprisingly handsome face.

  “Good news eulen-pahre?” The seminarian asked, though his attention was on the massive pool of water set into the floor of the apse just behind the priest.

  He'd never gotten used to the sheer size of it. Every time he entered the temple, a sense of dread kept him from getting too close.

  How deep does it go, he fretted from a safe distance. The god's pool it was called, and it felt as though the ancient ones had carved it out themselves.

  Oftentimes he thought that perhaps if it weren’t so cold and awful to look on, more of the faithful might come and kneel before it as they should. Even on a lovely day like this, with the candles that lined the aisle warm and inviting, he wasn’t surprised to find the entire temple empty.

  Cephus looked down over the letter and glared at the wormy little man staring at the water. He did not like having eager little men around, but it was a part of his life, just as much as the contents of this letter. “Yes.” he finally answered.

  “The gods have blessed our king?”

  The boy sounded far too hopeful. Cephus stifled his irritation and nodded glancing at the doors near the end of the aisle. Without warning, the eulen-pahre began to walk, leaving the seminarian to scramble and catch up.

  If anyone had been inside to see, they would have looked an odd pair. Cephus was an ancient pillar of holy dominance. His hair of salt and pepper, thick black brows and the long scar that touched the tail of said brow and ran down to his clavicle (though that was hidden beneath his robes) gave him a hard, alarming appearance. There was not a man among them who’d looked into his brilliant blue eyes and not felt some level of fear. The hold he had over one's soul was immediate, it was rare for anyone to make lasting eye contact with the warlock for this reason. The younger of the two was much smaller with a round, smooth face, and sparkling eyes, bright with the ignorance of blissful youth. He’d begun to grow his dark hair long and it clung in wisps to his forehead. His robes were a bit too long, but he seemed proud to drape himself in them each morning, and even his stride had taken on a more dour gait.

  He did so want to look the part of a true pahre of the order…

  “What is your name?” Cephus asked as they walked side by side.

  “Ambrose, your holiness.”

  The old pahre did not bother looking at him again. “You’ve done well to bring this to me. You will see that all letters from the king are given to me without delay. Yes?”

  “Yes of course holiness!”

  Cephus nodded as they left the empty room to enter the courtyard of the temple. It was as stark a place as any on the grounds of the Rakáhn temple. Gray stone underfoot, walls of inky black veter– the most one would ever see on the entire island– rising all around, and there in the center of an otherwise empty space, was the imposing figure of Mallus, the Originator. Eight feet tall and carved of rare ahle stone, he stood in a much smaller, and more shallow pool than the one inside.

  Mallus, The creator of all that Cephus saw around him now.

  The pahre eyed the stone structure. He did not so much believe in the gods as he did himself, but he would forever be deeply indebted to the established manipulation of man. So much so, that when he stood and gazed up, there was a stirring in his heart. How could the first of their kind have known that generations after lifting the order to such status, Cephus would rise as its true holy leader. It had taken years of searching, and in some cases killing until he’d gotten it right. But finally, his rule would be handed to him by the tireless efforts of one very determined, very powerful man.

  “All is well with the wars, your holiness?” Ambrose prodded.

  He was nosy and irritating, but Cephus knew an ally when he saw one.

  “Nothing will stop him now,” he said, and both men looked out past the courtyard towards the south, “The world belongs to us.”

  “And to the gods.” Ambrose added, his proud smile beaming beside the pahre.