The Dark Path

  Harkas Holt splashed his face with the now cooled water from his wash basin, before dabbing himself lightly with a hand towel.

  He was tired of the pretence. Tired of delivering sermon after sermon to audiences filled with peasants and lesser nobles, gawking at him with eyes that lacked intelligence or insight.

  He cast aside the towel in frustration before composing himself. He would allow himself a moment, nothing more.

  The facade was of course a necessary one. The Crimson Path was one of Loudwater’s oldest and most destructive religions that fostered submission and repentance from its followers, but alluded to immeasurable rewards in the eternal afterlife.

  Harkas had never much cared for it. There had been a time when he had uttered his sermons in disbelief, stunned that the audacity and outright blasphemy of his words were devoured wholly by his impoverished audiences, eager for promises, for hope of a better life.

  Now he had grown numb to it. He was not a follower of The Path, his own personal beliefs had been sacrificed decades ago to make room for what he must do, but he had learned every aspect of the religion, pored through each of the six Crimson Tomes countless times, in order to fulfil his role as High Seer.

  A serving boy entered the room, pulling Harkas free from his thoughts.

  “Holy One.” The boy said with a bow of his head. “When it suits you, today’s audience is waiting.”

  “Good.” Harkas said, turning his back to the boy and extending his arms to the sides.

  The boy understood the meaning and hastened to the armour stand. He hefted large golden shoulderpads, etched with intricate Crimson Tome quotes, onto Harkas’ broad frame. The shoulderpads had small loops on their underside which the boy used to clip a long pure white cape on to.

  Next, six assorted chains were placed around Harkas’ neck. Varying from brilliant gold, to polished silver, to a bloody crimson, these were known as The Chains of Penance.

  Harkas was already wearing his deep red sermon robes, finished with bright golden detailing.

  He studied himself in a mirror, allowing a thin smile to creep across his face. He had to admit, he did look good.

  “Tell Karsi to begin preparations.” He said. “I shall make my way to the chapel once I have finished my prayers.”

  The boy scurried off wordlessly.

  Once he was certain he was alone Harkas strolled over to a dressing table. He pulled out a drawer built into the front which gave off a faint sigh as it was opened. Within, lay a pristine white box about two handspans long with golden runes decorating it. He uttered a phrase under his breath and rubbed his thumb across a rune that was placed over the box’s seal. The rune faded and the box popped open.

  Resting on some cushioning inside was a beautifully crafted knife. The blade was not made of metal, like one would expect, but instead bone, with small teeth chipped along each side.

  Harkas grabbed the knife by its handle and quickly sheathed it in a holder within his robes. He closed the box and slid the drawer back into the table before exiting the room quietly.

  Harkas could hear Karsi’s voice as he made his way from the back rooms of the chapel toward the main theatre.

  He rounded the side halls and made his way to the entrance of the chapel, he always entered from behind his audience, strolling forward through the middle of the room as he was introduced. It was a small detail but Harkas felt it was beneficial to his speeches. Let the people see him among them, let them see what a man could become if he followed The Path.

  Karsi spotted him with a smile as he rounded into the chapel’s theatre. Karsi didn’t know of course, none of the priests did, save for Hethel. Hethel, who had been sent here with Harkas all those years ago, was nowhere to be seen. He would no doubt be in his study, awaiting the end of the sermon so that the two may conduct their work.

  “Please stand for His Holiness, Highseer Holt.” Karsi said, gesturing toward Harkas.

  Harkas painted his face with a false humility, bowing his head as he walked forward through the room.

  His sermons were always full. The room seated hundreds. Hundreds of eager eyes and hungry stomachs. Hundreds of desperate minds clinging to his words, waiting for him to bring hope to their fruitless lives. They applauded him, some shouting prayers or reciting quotes to him.

  How they yearned.

  Harkas walked up the steps to the stage and approached the now vacant lectern, raising his hands before him as he did, silencing the room.

  “Brothers and sisters.” His voice boomed across the theatre. “We gather today under the shadow of the Crimson Watcher. The light of our world grows dim, and the air is thick with the scent of impending doom. Hearken unto me, for He is not pleased. The Watcher gazes upon our land and finds us wanting.”

  He fell into his speech with ease. This year, produce had been particularly lacking due to an unexpected drought. He would use this today.

  “ We were given dominion over these lands, entrusted with the sacred duty to uphold the six holy tenets and live in harmony with the elements. Yet, we have strayed from this most divine path!” He stepped away from the lectern and began pacing across the stage.

  “Look around you!” He yelled, gesturing in a broad sweeping motion. “Look within the city. Greed and avarice corrupt our hearts, turning neighbour against neighbour. Pride and hubris blind us to the needs of the weak and the cries of the suffering.”

  He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Do the rich suffer as you do? Have they felt the cruel embrace of this year’s drought?”

  He turned to a child within the audience and smiled. “Does the fourth tome not say we can take from one man what is needed by the other?”

  The child nodded eagerly.

  “The Church of The Crimson Path will fill your stomachs whenever we can. You will always have a place to rest, to eat, but more importantly, to pray, within our halls. We will deal with the nobility. Their gluttony blinds them! Who tends their fields? Who cooks their meals? Who makes the very clothes that adorn their fat figures? You!” He jabbed a finger forward at the crowd.

  “I am reminded.” He continued, “of Vassendra of the fifth tome. He was a sinner, he lived a life of blasphemy. But Vassendra saw the signs, he could see what lay on the horizon. So, in the mightiest of blights, he prayed. In the longest of droughts he prayed. While Kings and lords squabbled with each other, he prayed. When the world was ending and the world’s twilight looked to be upon us, Vassendra prayed to The Crimson Watcher. And what happened?” Harkas stood with his shoulders up in a shrugging gesture.

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  “He was redeemed by The Watcher.” The child in the crowd shouted.

  Harkas pointed at him with a smile.

  “He repented, and he was redeemed.” He said softly.

  “Today I say to you all, cast aside your pride and kneel in humble supplication. Seek forgiveness for your transgressions and mend the ways that have led you astray. Only through true repentance can we hope to appease the wrath of The Crimson Watcher and restore balance to our world.”

  Harkas then walked back to the lectern where a copy of the Sixth Crimson Tome lay. He flicked it open, knowing by memory the page he sought. He cleared his throat and began reading.

  “Warriors, lay down your arms and seek peace. Let your strength be a shield for the innocent, not a weapon of conquest. Pledge your swords to the service of justice and mercy, that you may cleanse your souls of the bloodshed that stains them.

  Common folk, let your daily labours be offerings of penance, and your homes be sanctuaries of righteousness. Remember, no soul is beyond redemption, but neither is any sin beyond judgement. The Crimson Watcher’s gaze is unyielding, and His judgement is swift. We stand at the precipice, teetering between salvation and damnation. The choice is ours to make.”

  He closed the book.

  “I would like to close this sermon with a prayer.” Harkas said, bowing his head. The room followed.

  “Let us fall to our knees and beg for The Watcher’s mercy. Let our cries for forgiveness rise to the heavens and pierce the stormy veil that separates us from divine grace. Only through heartfelt repentance and a return to the path of righteousness can we hope to avert the cataclysm that looms over us.

  Oh, Crimson Watcher, may you hear our pleas, and may your divine wrath be tempered by our sincere contrition. And to you all, go forth, and let your lives be a testament to your repentance. For the time of reckoning is upon us, and we must choose redemption over ruin.

  Finally, let us pray that The Watcher cast his gaze to those poor souls have gone missing and ensure their safe return home.

  We obey, we trust, and we serve. Always. Thus it shall be."

  “Thus it shall be.” The audience repeated.

  Harkas kept his head bowed, allowing his audience to breathe in his words. He gorged on the silence, smiling inwardly at their naivety. Withdrawing his hands from his robes, he placed them over his face, as if in contemplation. In actuality, this was a well rehearsed part of the speech. Harkas had several herbs in his pockets that when rubbed together gave off a vapour that caused one’s eyes to stream.

  As he rubbed his face with the herb residue, his eyes began to burn and water, responding instinctively to the irritant. After a moment he raised his head and allowed the audience to see him weeping, as if moved by The Watcher himself.

  Shouts of praise came from around the room at the sight of him and Harkas took this as his queue to leave. His work here was done.

  He stepped down from the stage and made his way back through the audience to the door in which he had entered. Desperate hands reached out toward him, gliding across his robes as he passed.

  As Harkas left the theatre he heard Karsi’s voice begin sounding out. The day’s sermons were far from over, but for the star of the show, well, he had places to be.

  Instead of returning to his chambers, Harkas entered his study quickly followed by the serving boy. He stood with his arms out as the boy got to work unclipping the cape and carefully removing the shoulderpads.

  “Another fine sermon.” He said as he worked.

  Harkas nodded to the boy, he allowed a hint of a smile. The boy had earned it.

  “Will you be needing anything further before you conduct your devotions, Holy One?” He asked. Any who knew Harkas, knew that after sermons he conducted his devotions. Hours worth of prayer, meditation, and writings, asking for forgiveness. And they also knew it was beyond blasphemous to disturb him during this time.

  “No. Thank you.” He replied.

  “Very well. I shall see you this evening.”

  Harkas watched the boy bow deeply before him, then hurry out of the door, closing it behind him.

  He used to wait a few minutes. Third hell, he used to wait up to an hour sometimes, fearful that someone may walk in on him. But these days he needn’t bother. There was no danger of any disturbance and he would not be called upon until Harkas himself signalled for it.

  He removed all of his formal attire, folding it neatly on a chair and removing the sheathed knife from its hiding place and laying it on a table as he did so.

  Wearing only a simple white tunic, Harkas stood to full height and rolled his neck to either side, causing a series of loud clicks. Then, he sat at the desk and played with the knife for a moment, dancing it across his fingertips with practised ease. He paused. Hethel would be waiting for him.

  Harkas pushed his chair backward and leaned forward into a crouching position on the floor. Using the knife he carved three runes into the stone. Upon completion of the third rune, the three lit up and a green glow formed between them, creating a fourth rune.

  The stone floor began to part in front of Harkas, forming downward leading steps before him into darkness. He didn’t need light, he had walked this path hundreds, maybe thousands of times.

  He knelt down into the hole and began descending the stairs, pulling the chair back to his desk as he did so. He was comfortable with his routine and the secrecy of it, but he would not become sloppy.

  The steps spiralled to the left and as he continued down them and light slowly began to creep into his vision.

  Eventually the steps ended and opened into a large room. There was a passage on the far end of the room, just like the one Harkas had entered from - that led directly to Hethel’s study - and several patterns had been carved into the floor all culminating at a large stone slab, elevated in the middle of the room. Located on a wall beside the slab, were three metallic squares, each attached to a hinge and to the side of them, what appeared to be a furnace of sorts. The room was well lit with stoked braziers hanging on the walls, causing dancing shadows throughout.

  Hethel was standing beside the slab, a slew of assorted tools laid out before him. Even at their age, he was a handsome and sought after man. Harkas would often see Hethel courting some noble’s daughter or another. Luckily for Hethel, The Path didn’t forbid such frivolity.

  He smiled toward Harkas. “Heard the middle of it from the corridors. Vassendra of the fifth?”

  “Aah.” Harkas replied with a wave of his hand. “He was an easy choice. I couldn’t speak on Eliesh of the third again, could I?”

  Hethel let out a laugh. “They really do eat anything up. Maybe you should speak on the farting whistler? I hear he was as virtuous as any hero.” Harkas snorted in response.

  Here, help me with this?”

  Hethel stepped to one end of the slab, placing his fingers around the edges, while Harkas moved to the other end. Located underneath a lip on either end of the slab was a set of levers that when pressed in conjunction with the opposing levers, caused depressions to appear in the slab that lined up with the patterns on the floor.

  “Shall we begin?”

  Harkas nodded, striding over to the metal squares on the wall. He grabbed one and swung it on its hinges revealing a drawer of sorts and the bottom of a pair of feet on display.

  He flicked up a locking mechanism on the underside of the drawer and slowly began sliding it out along some wooden tracks.

  Once fully extended, the drawer revealed a man, naked, save for a cloth strewn modestly across his lower regions. Each square in the wall contained such a figure, although they varied in height, sex and weight. Those parts needn’t be the same.

  Upon the light hitting the man’s face he began slurring and groaning.

  “Peace, friend.” Harkas shushed him. “We just need to move you over here.”

  The man was heavily drugged, but the light and fresh air seemed to be pulling him from his stupor.

  “Harka… Holy One?” He spluttered.

  Harkas and Hethel guided the man onto the slab, laying him on his back, ignoring his confused protests.

  Methodically, each one began tying down the man’s hands and feet which started to induce a panic within him.

  “Be easy.” Hethel whispered. “You appease The Watcher with your actions.”

  The man started pulling at his bonds, becoming more and more lucid by the second.

  “Wait. Please, no please. Wait, wait, wait.” He begged.

  Harkas gagged the man.

  He moved to one of the man’s arms whilst Hethel moved to the other, both producing their bone knives as they did.

  The man continued struggling. Screaming now beneath his gag.

  In practised synchrony, Hethel and Harkas pressed their knives down into the man’s wrists before sliding them with little resistance up his arms to the chest. They then repeated this with the legs.

  Blood flowed heavily into the depressions on the slab and the man’s struggling had ceased considerably as he lost more and more blood.

  Harkas moved to the man’s throat and made a deep incision from ear to ear. Finally, the struggling stopped as the patterns on the floor around the room began drinking greedily with a dark glimmer.

  “This one’s done.” Hethel murmured.

  Harkas nodded, untying the straps. Their moods were always sombre after a sacrifice, no matter how many times they performed them.

  “You see to the collection, I’ll get the next one prepared.” Hethel hoisted the lifeless body onto his shoulder and made his way toward the furnace.

  Harkas walked over to a corner of the room that seemed to be where the patterns contravened. He knelt down and plucked a large glass vial that was nestled in a holder built into the floor, now full with blood.

  “Is so much really necessary? He whispered to himself.

  He took it over to where Hethel had laid his tools out and found a cork. He plugged the vial then set it down reverently on the floor by the stairs Hethel had come from.

  Then, he made his way back to the table and found a second vial. He took it to the holder and screwed it into the floor.

  “Be easy.” He heard Hethel saying over his shoulder. “You appease The Watcher with your actions.”