Vol. 2 Ch. 26: Players (Draft)

Author's Note:

Warning: Sensitive content ahead, such as human ashes.

Recurring Characters:

Gale Butcher: The bandit leader that Peter killed recently.
Aldemar: The captain of Holy Knights in Rosefall.
Alselma: Arch Priestess of Avaris in Rosefall.

Recap:

“Stop!” he yelled, getting their attention. “Identify yourself and stay where you are.”

…End of Author's note...

...

The caravan came to a halt, just beyond the stone road that led to the city’s southern gate. The ragged travellers looked confused and distressed, but the guard’s authoritative command had its intended effect. They did not advance further.

The guard let out a sigh of relief. While waiting for his teammates to join him, he carefully observed their appearances. He did not doubt that he’d have to report it all word by word to his captain.

Dust clung so tightly to them that it was impossible to tell the original colour of their clothes, letting him know that they had made a particularly long and hard journey. Their eyes, though alert and constantly scanning their surroundings, held the tiny spark of hope that reminded him of people living in the slums. He could spot men, women and even a few children among the group.

At the forefront of the caravan, a middle-aged man with greying stubble stepped forward, hands half-raised in a show of peace. He kept a straight posture by sheer will, despite the exhaustion lined on his face.

“I’m a merchant,” He called out hoarsely. “I can prove it. These people—the free ones—are all part of my roaming caravan. We’re taken captive by a band of bandits.” He pointed at the captive men. “The surviving bandits. A simple status confirmation will prove that I’m telling the truth.”

The first city guard, a stocky man in scale armour, looked behind him after hearing crunching sounds. Three more city protectors approached with purpose, flanking a tall figure in white and silver. The sigil of Avaris shimmered on the chestplate of the woman walking between them.

She strode forward with silent authority, her polished greaves crunching grass beneath each step. The guards instinctively made way for her, as only the captain held a similar authority to her.

Everyone, besides the guards, held awe in their eyes as they looked at her. The guards had mixed feelings toward the Holy Knights. While they respected them and felt grateful for decreasing their workload during Solace, it also made taking bribes and smuggling goods almost impossible.

The Knight swept her eyes over the caravan, then fixed on the bound prisoners. “How did you manage to escape your captors?” she asked, voice clear and calm. “They look a little too obedient for bandits.”

…

“…escaped from Gale Butcher, you say?” The man asked, turning toward his butler after stepping down from the carriage. His boots crunched against the gravel road outside the garrison hall.

“Yes, my lord,” the old butler replied, standing rigid beside the steps. “It had been reported as such from the guards.” A flicker of unease passed over the man's face.

The man paused to fix the cuffs of his silk shirt, then glanced up at his retainer with an arched brow. “Go on. Don’t keep me in the dark.”

The butler’s throat worked as he leaned in a little. “The merchant who returned with them… he claims that Gale Butcher is no more.”

A silence settled between them, broken only by the distant clatter of hooves.

“No more?” the lord repeated softly, as if tasting the words. “He’s dead?”

“That’s what the merchant believes. Says two men found the bandit hideout and freed them…and during the process killed the bandit lord.”

The nobleman's eyes narrowed as he turned to stare toward the southern horizon. “And where are these two individuals now?”

“…Err, he can’t remember, my lord. None of them can.” Bors said. “Their memories are likely tampered with. Even the captives showed unusual docile behaviour despite being potentially turned into debt slaves for a few years to repent for their crimes.” He hesitated again.

“…The tempering, my lord, invalidates their claims about the death of bandit lord,” he said.

The nobleman nodded. “Let’s just hope that he’s dead for good.” He started to move toward the garrison doors. “Who else knows about this?”

“Not many so far, but the news will soon spread. There were people present to witness it all.”

Just then, a carriage rolled through the outer gate, its wheels crunching over gravel. It was smaller, lighter than the noble’s own, but bore the crest of the Goddess of healing.

The nobleman slowed his stride, expression shifting subtly. “Already?” he murmured, more to himself than to Bors.

The driver brought the carriage to a smooth stop near the nobleman’s carriage, its wooden wheels groaning as the horses came to rest.

A moment later, the carriage door opened, and out stepped a broad-shouldered man clad in polished white armour, its plates trimmed with enchanted silver. Aldemar, leader of the holy knights, surveyed the courtyard with his hawk-like eyes.

Behind him descended an elderly woman with silver hair braided behind her back, her body covered in a robe. Unlike Aldemar, her presence was quiet, but much more commanding to those who knew her. Lady Anselma, the high priestess, bore no blade, yet her authority often reached farther than any knight’s sword.

Viscount Garridan Vauclain stiffened slightly at the sight of her.

“Well,” he murmured to Bors, “it seems the storm is gathering faster than expected.”

“My lord,” Bors said softly, “There was a holy knight present at the scene. I just didn’t expect her to inform them about it so soon.”

“No,” Garridan said, watching as Aldemar and Anselma approached, “This is no longer about a few dead bandits, it seems. It’s about who killed them…and why no one can remember it.”

Aldemar reached them first. He gave a respectful nod, though his voice held little patience. “Lord Garridan. I assume you’ve been briefed.”

“Only as far as the gaps in everyone’s memories and the sudden death of a man too dangerous to fall so quietly.”

Anselma joined them, her eyes calm, almost unreadable. “Then you know we’ve a mystery on our hands.”

“High Pristess,” Bors whispered, bowing his head respectfully.

Garridan gave a shallower bow, but respected the custom regardless. She was the highest authority in the city, and thus represented the Trinity.

“Only time will tell if it’s a blessing or an incoming threat.” She said, giving them a nod.

“Please, Lady Anselma,” the nobleman said. “After you.”

Without another word, the High Priestess ascended the steps, Aldemar following behind with the sure-footedness of a man who had led armies.

Garridan watched them go for a moment, expression unreadable. “Keep your ears open, Bors,” he murmured.

“Yes, my lord.”

Then, squaring his shoulders, Lord Garridan followed the others inside.

…

A few hours later…

The stench of rot and filth clung to the area like a jealous lover.

The vampire moved with unnatural grace, his eyes gleaming faintly red in the dark that was always present in the sewers. The filthy water moved in the canal at a slow pace, making him feel irritated. He grimaced, nose wrinkling as he lifted the hem of his cloak, all to lighten the suffering of his nostrils.

He hated this place with a passion. He would have never visited this place if he hadn’t been forced to. Those cultist just had to make their lair below the sewers. Disgraceful.

He would have preferred them to make their hideout under direct sunlight rather than this. This is beneath me. Utterly beneath me.

As a proud-born pure-blood vampire, he couldn’t be reduced to wading through sewage like a rat. He still kept moving. He didn’t need the torchlight the mortals relied on. His senses cut through shadow and filth like blades. Still, he snarled low under his breath every time he brushed too close to the moss-slicked walls or caught the scent of mortal waste thick in the air.

Ancestors must have forsaken me. The vampire gritted his teeth. Even if he wasn’t an aristocrat—not a baron yet—he was still of an old, pure line that had a history of over a millennium. He should have been respected. How is this fair?

He clicked his tongue in irritation. “Stupid mutt,” he muttered. “All that blood and muscle and he still managed to die like a whimpering swine.”

“The Gale Butcher…heh,” he said, his tone mocking. He was only here, crawling through a city’s festering veins because that mongrel thrall had gotten himself butchered by ancestors-knew-what.

He turned a corner, the sigil-marked archway ahead coming into view—twisted tentacle shapes carved into stone, writhing with forbidden meaning. The smell here changed. Not cleaner by any stretch of the imagination, but rich with iron, ash and blood. The last one he very much liked.

Looking at the sigil, he felt the call of chaos tug at his spine. He hated it, but he feared it even more. He couldn’t fathom how these human fools could worship the abyss without going crazy. Maybe they’re crazy…would explain their practices.

The cult’s lair lay just ahead, masked by runes that turned away the eyes of the unworthy.

The vampire narrowed his eyes at the archway. “Charming,” he said dryly, his voice echoing slightly in the stone corridor. Then he stepped forward.

Inside, the walls were smoother, cleaner. Not clean, but tended at least. Fresh blood was smeared into symbols that pulsed gently like candlelight. The scent of incense fought a losing battle against the underlying perfume of rot and despair. Murmured chants echoed from deeper within, rhythmic and guttural. Some human dialect twisted by tongues not made for speech.

He stepped carefully. Despite the loathing coiled in his gut, he moved like prey among predators, silent and careful. He could already hear them ahead doing unnatural things. The sounds of bone rattling in bowls, voices whispering to things they couldn’t see, reached him without pause. Half-mad, half-naked, Acolytes.

He rolled his eyes. “Blood magic was way superior.”

The corridor opened into a wider chamber. Flickering crimson runes lit the room in a hazy glow. Stone pillars ringed a dais at the centre, upon which stood the statue of a woman, her hair braided almost like tentacles. A trident in her hands.

Before the statue, the arch cultist was standing, wearing tattered robes, arms raised high. Her eyes were wide, too wide, sclera blackened with chaos corruption. Her forehead, her arms, her abdomen, her legs, all covered in human ashes.

The vampire stepped forward, the runes flaring gently in response to his presence. All eyes turned to him. A half-dozen cultists froze mid-ritual, hands smeared with ashes, expressions ranging from reverence to rage.

The vampire did not bow. He wouldn’t dare in this company, but lowered his gaze, just slightly, as a gesture not of reverence, but of survival toward the woman.

“Lady Nyara,” he said, voice low and strained. “I brought some news.”

The arch cultist lowered her arms slowly, the room falling into a tense silence. “Lorenthar,” she said, her voice gently, too gentle for his taste. “You reek of failure.”

He bared his fangs in a polite smile. “Not a complete one, my lady.”

Her smile was indulgent—dangerous. She took a single step down from the dais, the ashes flaking gently from her skin like dry snow.

“Let us hear then…about your failure.”

Lorenthar straightened, cloak rustling faintly behind him. He hated this part. Speaking plainly in front of her always felt like peeling his skin with a dull blade.

“The thrall is dead,” he said. “I found out an hour ago when the escaped sacrifices reached the gates of Rosefall with some of his minions.”

Nyara didn’t speak. The silence stretched, heavy and unnatural. The runes at the base of the statue dimmed, their light receding as though retreating from her stillness. Her presence pressed into his bones, not power in the way vampires knew it. This was deeper, wrong, and older. It scraped at the soul.

“They said two men led them,” Lorenthar continued, keeping his voice even. “Men whose face or general figure they can’t recall.”

Still, no reaction from the arch cultist.

Lorenthar pressed on. “The viscount and temple folks were seen outside the garrison doors soon after. The survivors told them what they knew—about the gale butcher becoming a thrall and providing humans to his master.”

Finally, Nyara exhaled. It sounded like wind sliding through bone.

…End of Chapter…

Footnote: In the book, in the human kingdom, the highest-ranked priest/priestess in an area needs to be treated like they are a direct representative of the trinity--almost with the same respect as the statues of the gods.