Chapter 3
Madra and Varello stand at the foot of the bed in the castle’s infirmary. Marchand drools onto his pillow, his eyes opened wide and dull.
“How do we bring him back?” Madra asks.
“Well...um...how can I put this delicately? We can’t. You may keep him alive indefinitely by pouring broth down his throat and having the physicks and healthmaids tend to him, but he will never regain even an ounce of his former nature. His mind has been paused on the image of the girl. I brought him here to demonstrate to you just exactly what we are dealing with.”
Madra gives Varello a suspicious look. “And you were immune to her magick?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“And she was immune to yours?”
“Quite literally, it seems.”
She grabs him by his collar. “I’m not just some doe-eyed barwench for you to play word games with. Lives hang in the balance here, so I shall ask you again: why is it that Marchand is a drooling potato and you are not?”
“Well, again, there’s no way to be sure, but it seems that our mystery red-headed nudist serial killer possesses what can only be described as the perfect embodiment of the female form. For any man to gaze upon it is to descend into the madness of contemplating her beauty. No magick involved, just the unlikely manifestation of a statistical improbability.”
Madra narrows her eyes at Varello. “Isn’t that the very foundation of magick, the ability to cause the manifestation of statistical improbabilities?”
Varello smiles. “In a world with wizards, nothing is improbable.”
Madra returns her hawk-eyed gaze to Varello’s face. “I find it improbable that you would just so happen to be unaffected by this girl’s feminine wiles.”
Varello scratches the back of his neck. “Your Majesty, though I really do not wish to discuss it, it’s probably not quite as improbable as you might think.”
Madra reflects on Varello’s words for a moment, then blushes with understanding.
The road to the Deus Palatium is paved with the good intentions once possessed by the owners of the bones used in the construction of the aforementioned road. Zanther and Novanostrum stroll across the vast plains, empty save for the road and the towering, hulking mass of the stone seat of Crucifer power in Upper Kleighton.
To call it a castle would be to call a salamander a mighty dragon. In fact, the Deus Palatium ranks second on the Kleighton Gadabout’s list of the twelve most prominent megastructures in Upper Kleighton, which is titled, appropriately enough, ‘The Twelve Most Prominent Megastructures in Upper Kleighton, Ranked in Order of Prominence’. Number one was the King’s New Omnimagick Tower (commonly referred to as ‘The Knot’) in Arcania. It should probably be noted that Arcania has never had a king, and that the Knot is not so much a tower as a conflagration of stone structures addended to the original over a span of centuries.
When the two of them are roughly fifty man-lengths from the second most prominent megastructure in Upper Kleighton, Zanther raises an arm and they both pause mid-step.
“Well?” Novanostrum asks.
“You hear that?”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“That’s my point. This place should be crawling with Crucifers, but I don’t even see any guards.”
“I don’t understand why you’re considering a lack of Crucifers to be bad thing. If you’ll recall, they spent a lot of time trying to expale us the last time we dealt with them.”
They resume their walk towards the massive megadoor, which stands open.
“Ah,” Zanther continues, “for all of your wizardly wisdom, you have much to learn about politicks. The Crucifers, for all of their wanton killing and tribute-gouging, do, in fact, serve a few important purposes. They act as a buffer between the Darrinians to the east and the kingdoms to the west, they serve as the gatekeepers of the main passage to Lower Kleighton, but most importantly, they are the core of the most widely practiced religion on the continent. That said religion is thoroughly corrupt and blatantly ridiculous is beside the point. People like thinking they know what is going to happen to their souls when they die, moreover they like the idea of even having souls in the first place. Without a viable religion to keep the religiously-inclined folks busy, religious people will spend their newly-freed up time doing other things like reproducing and hassling normal people, and this will lead to unrest.”
Novanostrum nods. “Some of your points are valid, but the rest of what you said sounds like something you just made up on the spot.”
Zanther draws his longknife as they pass through the megadoorway and into the vast, empty main hall of the Deus Palatium. The only light comes from a row of tiny windows far overhead, and the two of them walk gingerly down the long, echoing corridor. Just at the edge of their vision, in a pool of near-shadow untouched by the muted light, Novanostrum sees movement.
Zanther sees it, too, and braces himself. “Looks like we’re not the only ones seeking salvation here today.”
“Something gives me the feeling there isn’t going to be enough to go around.”
Varello and Madra sit across from each other in the private dining room reserved for Claustrian royalty. Varello takes a bite of boarsteak, savoring its juicy flavor for a moment before washing it down with a gulp of purpleberry wine.
“So how can we deal with this naked murderess?” Madra asks.
“Well, since she can’t harm me, I suppose it’s up to me to dispatch her before she is able to claim any more victims.”
“You mean to ‘dispatch’ her? As much as I disapprove of what she’s doing to my people, I don’t know that killing her is fair. It’s not like she chose to be born too beautiful.”
“I don’t really see any other options. We cannot apprehend her and bring her here for a trial, and we cannot allow her to roam wherever she likes unchecked. Suppose she decided to walk through the city gates and up to the doors of your castle? Who would stop her? How many would perish?”
Madra sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Who goes there?”
The lone Crucifer soldier walks casually down the hallway with his spear only half-raised. Novanostrum keeps his staff poised, and Zanther does not lower his longknife.
“We’re here to see the Grand Pontiflex,” Zanther says.
The soldier nods, disregarding their battle stances. “I expected as much. Well, follow me. I’ll show you to him.”
He leads them back the way he came, opening the door and motioning for them to enter the spacious bedroom of the head of the Crucifist Church.
An enormous four-post bed takes up most of the space in the room. Lying in the middle of the bed is an old man with a wiry beard of gray and white. He looks into the faces of his two visitors.
“I...remember the two of you. You saved me once,” he pauses to cough into his fist, “but this time, I fear, I’m beyond saving.”
“What happened here?” Zanther asks.
“As you know, when you destroyed the false Pontiflex Minor, you released me from the enchantment he was using to bind me. When I regained my capacity for rational thinking, I surveyed the damage done by that impostor, and came to the conclusion that the only way for the Church to make amends was to sell off a large portion of our assets and distribute those funds among the surviving victims and families of those who were attacked and murdered by the daemons and by our own soldiers. Having done this, I then ordered all operations suspended indefinitely.”
“Yes, but why?” Novanostrum asks.
“Crucifisim, I realized, was a tree producing poisoned fruit and choking Upper Kleighton with its deep roots. It was extorting the dodeckas of innocents, expaling those who opposed it, and facilitating a myriad of other abuses.”
Zanther clears his throat. “Crucifism has been that way since its inception. One rogue Pontiflex Minor wasn’t solely responsible for everything you jus
t said. Why not use your considerable influence and the vast resources of the Church to do good? Why dissolve a church that gives people so much hope?”
The Grand Pontiflex clasps his hands together above his blanket. “I had a vision. I suspect it has something to do with why you’re here as well. I suppose you wished to ask me to marshal a force to battle the looming threat of a mechamated army of steel men poised to sweep the land?”
Zanther nods. “Something like that.”
The Grand Pontiflex fidgets for a moment. “The primary purpose of the Crucifist Church is to act as a spiritual bridge between the populace and the Two True Gods, Thanos and Vitala. In my vision, I saw our considerable forces brutally slaughtered to a man. Rather than waste their lives needlessly, I dismissed them.
“Furthermore, our role as a ‘spiritual bridge’ is no longer necessary.”
“Why not?” Zanther asks.
“Most of the people of Upper Kleighton are going to be sent to meet Thanos face-to-face before this struggle is ultimately lost.”
Varello, with his backsack packed with clothes and provisions, steps out of his room in Claustria castle.
“Hey!”
He turns to see Queen Madra running toward him holding something behind her back. She stops, panting, and holds out her parting gift, which he takes from her and immediately begins inspecting.
“Wyvern-gut strings, a dragon-horn inlaid fretboard, mythril tuning-knobs...this is the finest lute I’ve ever seen. A royal gift, indeed!”
She blushes. “If a soldier wants to have the best chance of defeating his opponent, he needs to have the best weapon available.”
Varello strums the strings, frowning at the discordant notes. He twists the knobs as he plucks each string, trying to find a good tuning. After a moment, he is able to strum a pleasant-sounding chord.
He places a hand on Madra’s shoulder. “I shall deal with this threat and return before you even notice I’m gone. Like I said, she doesn’t even pose a threat to me.”
Madra frowns. “You’d just better hope she doesn’t have a brother.”
Novanostrum and Zanther pass once more through the megadoorway and back out into the world. The sky has gone from blue to pea-green, and the winds mask the sounds of birds in trees on the horizon.
“You know,” Zanther says, “for all the overwhelming architectural majesty and religious symbolism we just saw, I don’t feel all that spiritually uplifted.”
Novanostrum shrugs. “Just because the leader of your religion has lost his faith is no reason to lose yours.”
They both turn around at the sound of frantic footfalls on marble. The Crucifer soldier stands in front of them.
“The Grand Pontiflex has asked me to provide you each with a horse and some provisions.”
Zanther gives a suspicious look. “I know this is a House of the Gods, but when you say ‘provisions’ is there any chance that could include some beer?”
The soldier feigns offense. “This is no ‘House’ of the Gods, this is a Palace. We have barrels of the finest beers from across Upper Kleighton.”
Novanostrum beams at Zanther. “Ye of little faith.”