This update's for Nasma, whose "bump" was enough to get my procrastinating butt to sit down and pound the keys.
The Pen and the Sword
Krix accepted a towel from a nearby priest and pressed the wet cloth against his face. He sighed with contentment before lowering his hands. “You are still here?” Krix feigned astonishment as he fixed an imperious stare toward three nearby priests. “It is done. I have what I require. Leave us.”
“Your Grace,” one man stepped forward with a bow, “is that wise?”
Wise? Perhaps not. “It is what I will. That is enough.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
The three men bowed low before exiting the darkened chamber in a cacophony of clinking armor and shuffling feet.
Krix tossed the towel onto the stone floor and pulled a chair closer with one foot before collapsing onto it. Complete silence reigned for long moments. Well, not quite complete. Poridel Poriden wheezed like a drunkard, sucking in mouthfuls of air, body twisting as his soul finished the journey.
The sage turned his head to one side. “I live?”
His voice was weak. That was to be expected. “You do. For now. You should thank Cyric.”
“Never.”
Krix shrugged, unperturbed. “No matter. Proselytizing is for the petty, yes?” The high priest kicked both feet onto the table holding Poridel’s naked, supine form. “I must admit, sage, I am quite surprised you allowed us to bring you back.”
Poridel rolled his head away from Krix to stare mutely at the darkness overhead. After a moment, the sage licked his lips. “Where are we?”
“Where, indeed.” Krix withdrew a thin dagger and began to pick at his fingernails. “I suppose we have some time for idle banter. Not much, mind you, but some.” The Cyric gestured around the blackness. “We, friend, are in the bowels of a mausoleum. Fitting, is it not? Yes, yes – I think it is.”
Krix stood and began to pace even as he shaved his fingernails with the blade. “I will allow you some time to…recover. I have never died, but I have heard it can be somewhat of a trying experience.”
The priest sat upon the table and tenderly brushed Poridel’s hair away from the old man’s face. “I have always liked cemeteries, sage. Since I was but a child, to tell it true. Others of my age would flock to the whorehouses and the taverns, the churches, the fairgrounds, even the forests and fields. But…but there is nothing quite so calm, so relaxing, as a cemetery. Yes, yes?”
Krix sheathed the blade. “Why, one could walk into the largest towns of this land – Pell, Val Hor, even Apia. You would be swarmed by the masses, covered with pushing and jostling people, pressed in by waves of frenzied flesh. Yet, find you a cemetery, and walk amongst those cold, silent stones. Yes, yes – an oasis of tranquility, a pocket of solitude, in every community.”
Color slowly began to return to the sage’s cheeks. He coughed, turning his head to one side, and phlegm the color of blood dribbled from his lips onto his cheek. Krix produced a small handkerchief and dabbed away the mucous, speaking as one would to a child. “You are no fool, sage. Yet you have agreed to let my god deliver you unto us a second time. Is your thirst for life that strong? I find that amazing, if you would know. Truly.”
Poridel coughed once more. The sage warily accepted the cloth and, this time, cleared his chin himself. He rolled onto an elbow, wincing, and sat upward. Krix eyed him for a moment before retaking his seat. The high priest smiled. “Are you ready, then, to answer my questions?”
Poridel raised a palsied hand. “N-not…not just yet.”
Krix’s eyes went flat. “I believe I did not hear you.”
“Not just yet, Your Grace.”
“Ah, that is better. Men of station must cling to decorum. Yes, yes – it is best.” Krix drew in a deep breath before exhaling. “I believe this will go easier if I inform you of some…things. Things you doubtless wonder about this very moment.”
The high priest waved an arm about the room. “You cannot see it, friend, but there is a distinctly emerald glimmer surrounding us in this darkness. You cannot magically transport yourself away from here. I would never be so foolish - yes, yes.” The high priest measured the sage with a lengthy stare. “I am uncertain as to what spells still pulsate within that prune-of-a-brain, but…’lest you wish to return whence you came, I would recommend against uttering any arcane phrases.”
“I understand. Your Grace.”
“Of course you do, Poridel. Of course you do.” Krix’s teeth were yellow in the gloom. “But I doubt I would be so quick as that Melter assassin. Yes, yes – I think I would kill you more slowly, should you try to be an upstart.”
“Your Grace,” Poridel began weakly, “we have an understanding. You, and I – we are in this thing. We have chosen sides and we understand what such a choice means. But…but those men who left…they do not know.”
Krix shrugged, the edge of annoyance in his tone. “That does not concern me. They are who they are. They have done what…they have done. It is all written, friend. It all has been written.”
“Spare them, Your Grace.” Poridel, for the first time, could put feeling behind his words. “I will give you what you want, tell you what you seek. Only…I ask you to spare them.”
Krix studied the sage for a moment before standing and resuming his circular pacing. “The world we live in, friend, is one of death. Why, we stand now upon the body of a dead god.” Krix toed the flagstones for effect. “Outside the colors bleed away, warmth leaves, and the long night will soon fall. Death is everywhere and anywhere. It has always been, and always will be.
“You do understand,” Krix continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “it is against the grain of my Church to bring someone back. I have asked much of my God so that I might do this thing.”
Poridel nodded, dragged the cloth over his lips. “And I thank you for it, Your Grace.” The sage looked up. “Yet will you spare them?”
Krix’s brows furrowed in anger. Yet the evidenced rage passed just as quickly, a delighted smile firmly in its place. “I nearly forgot. Yes, yes – indeed I did. How foolish of me. This repartee has caused me to neglect my duties. Shameful, really.”
Krix disappeared a short distance into the blackness before uttering a word. Light flared, causing Poridel to blink like an owl. A massive bronze urn had been upended. Upon it was a blanket. Krix removed the sheet with a flourish, revealing…pain.
***
For a moment Poridel appeared as if he would break into tears.
But only for a moment.
“Such methods do not become you, Your Grace.”
Krix regarded the naked sage before looking downward at the various torture devices, a faint expression of distaste on his features. “Yes, yes – you are correct, of course. But I have taxed myself of late, have asked much of my god.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Sometimes, friend, the old ways are the best ways; the simple ways are most effective.”
“I have told you, Your Grace,” Poridel stated matter-of-factly, “I will tell you what you would know.”
“Save for what I must know,” Krix rejoined. “We both understand what it is I must do, and what information I must…pull…from you.” As if to accentuate his words, Krix lifted an odd, metallic device.
The high priest walked, holding the item, to where Poridel hunched. “In my youth, when I was newly smocked, I had the honor of partaking in a handful of disembowelments. Messy things, really. Not quite my, ah, style. Yes, yes – not my normal recourse.”
Krix sat next to Poridel as if joining a friend upon a park bench. “I am afraid I am not very good at it. Not good at all. Too clumsy by half. My hands shake and my eyesight is not what it once was…”
Poridel was silent.
Krix stood and retrieved another device with his other hand. “They say the leg bone of a cow works well. Drain the marrow, hollow it out.” The priest pantomimed thrusting the bone-colored tube upward in a violent manner. “Just-so-wide-enough to allow the fork, the tines folded, to slide upward. Then…” The high priest depressed a button on the first device, and three barbed hooks sprung fully outward. “Twist, pull. Twist, pull. You can imagine, I am certain.”
Krix threw back his head and laughed. “But, friend Poridel, by all the gods – do not stand too closely! – not when the subject’s entrails come spewing forth. Tsk, tsk - what a mess.” The high priest placed both utensils on the urn once more. “As I said,” he continued, “horribly messy. Truly, it is.”
“What is it you would know, Your Grace?” Poridel’s voice was barely audible above Krix’ chortling.
Yet the high priest was not finished. He pulled a thin rod from the urn, the length of his forearm, and rolled it between his fingers. “The Patriarch of Genn, I am told, pierces the eyes of those who dare to look upon any of his harem. Yet, amazingly, men still do.”
Krix glanced at Poridel. “Have you ever? Been to Genn, that is?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Krix sighed. “Nor have I. A pity. Yet they seem like such religious zealots; I fear I would not like it overly much.” The high priest replaced the rod and hefted a hammer. “Crude, this one, but effective. I had one of my men purchase it from a smith not far from here. A couple knocks – placed just so – and men start singing.”
Poridel shifted but otherwise remained silent. Krix stared at him and seemed to suddenly lose interest. He replaced the hammer and covered the devices with the blanket once more. “All of them…all of those little tools are horrible. Yes, yes – simply horrible.”
Krix meandered toward the opposite end of the room. There, upon the ground at the edge of the light, was a small coffer. The high priest toed the lid open before regarding the sage once more. “Horrible devices, those - but none so horrible as these.” Krix lifted a vial, uncorked it, and sniffed the opening.
Then, without warning, the Cyric priest strode across the room and held the vial below Poridel’s nose. “You are a sage, yes? Tell me – what does the vial contain?”
Poridel could smell the sweet aroma, had smelled it many times. “Healing potions, Your Grace.”
“You. Are. Correct.”
Krix clapped his hands mockingly. “And therein, friend, is your undoing. For no matter how badly I am at this whole game of torture, even were I as bumbling as the demon Ral…
“And no matter how brave and steadfast you are, no matter how long you can withstand the pain…
“Always, always, and always – there will be sweet relief for you. You will be healed. Time and again.” Krix’ eyes narrowed like a viper’s and he leaned forward, his face inches from Poridel’s own. “You will bleed and burn and break, you will snap and writhe and boil, but you Will. Not. Die.”
Krix stood upright once more, corked the bottle, and crossed his arms. “At least, not until I say you do.” The priest’s face and mood were suddenly pleasant. “And I will not do that, Tower Sage Poridel Poriden, until you tell me what I must know.”
***
Midnight.
Poridel, for an eternity, was engulfed within a humus of pain. He felt death come for him – beseeching, soothing, crying – yet always was it held at bay. Always denied by the curative potions poured down his throat.
Poridel, in those few moments of lucidity between bouts of anguish, had learned to recoil at the cloying scent of healing, the once-fresh taste of the liquid. He loathed himself for the fact that, even understanding his predicament, he still would cry out to be healed. They did not need to force the liquid into him; he drank it, time and again, greedily.
After a few sessions, he felt his mind slipping. It would be easy, he thought, to simply allow it to go. To sink into the embrace of madness, to drown in the seas of incomprehension. By the gods, such a destiny called for him.
If I can only last until midnight.
Some of the sessions left marks even the potions, minor as they were, could not heal. Certainly the stone table and the floor surrounding it were covered with blood and worse. It must have appeared as if dozens had been violently murdered in the same spot, upon that table, in that black room.
Krix shared the duties. He had a pig-faced man, some middling priest, to assist him. Bending joints where they were not meant to bend was evidently difficult work. Through a veil of pain, Poridel could see that both men were sweating profusely.
He wondered, not for the first time, why they simply did not attempt to charm him. Or use some other, more powerful dweomer. They were priests, not back-alley thugs; other methods, not nearly so unpredictable in their success, were surely available.
Perhaps, Poridel mused, their god would not let them.
I must last until midnight.
Poridel surfaced into cognitive thought once more. Such moments were fleeting, and grew more infrequent with each passing hour. In those small valleys of no-pain, the sage would retreat to where he always retreated when times were difficult.
He thought. He pondered. He wondered.
He recalled the tomes he had read, and those he had written. He remembered pacing the stacks of books-upon-books-upon-books within the library of Demons. He reminisced about the summer he had first learned to pen the incredibly difficult elvish script.
On the whole, he had not lived a bad life. Boring, certainly. But only to those who peered at him from the outside. Poridel had never – and would never – hold his own child in his arms. He had never slain a man, to tell it true; he was thankful for it. He had never been to Genn, nor to the Aradeeti, nor to Gordia, nor to-
I will last until midnight.
Again, he came out of the throes of agony. Again, the taste was on his tongue. Yet, this time, he nearly succumbed to madness. He felt himself falling, dangling, twisting, dancing, tumbling…
It was a near thing. Too near.
It was time – or it had damned well better be.
“Your Grace.” His voice was smooth, despite what had been done – and then undone – to his vocal chords.
Krix sprung upright from where he slouched against the far wall. The priest shared a glance with his pig-faced assistant before eyeing Poridel warily. “I am here, sage. I am always here. Let us end this. Yes, yes – do let us end it.”
“Your Grace,” Poridel repeated, shoving the wave of insanity away – if only for a moment. “I will tell you what you must know.”
“All glory unto Cyric!” Krix slammed a hand onto the stone table. “To where do those men of Olgotha now go? And to what purpose?”
“I ask-”
“Damn you to the pits, sage!” Krix stepped forward and back-handed Poridel. The sage’s head snapped backward, bounced off the stone and the gore thereupon. “I am finished – FINISHED! – with these games. I must know!”
Poridel spat away a tooth and continued, for all the world as if he had never been interrupted. “I ask for one boon. A simple one. Your Grace.”
Krix ground his teeth. Poridel could actually hear the sound. “Ask it.”
“The time, Your Grace.”
“The time?” Krix stepped into his view – still blurry from the earlier pummeling. The priest’s tone was guarded. “What trickery are you about?”
“The time, Your Grace,” Poridel repeated. “I only wish to know…the time.” Let it be midnight. Gods, please, letitbemidnight. Madness threatened once more, roiling about him like impending nausea.
A silence in which a great many things hung in the balance then descended. Finally, Krix laughed. “Brother Deviom. Go outside – find out what time it is.”
Poridel heard footfalls recede, heard them walk up a flight of stairs somewhere in the shadows. The sage would have given anything to have followed that man, to leave this pit of hell and misery. Anything, that is, except that which Krix wanted him to give.
You will call. At midnight. You must call. Any later, and I am undone.
Poridel knew he had but a few moments left. A few moments, regardless of the outcome. And he decided, at that very instant, he would recall some thought, some pleasant memory, that would serve to hold – to hold the madness, the darkness, the world – to hold them all at bay for but a while longer.
His father had instilled within him a love to read. A love to write. A love to learn. Other children, stronger and more fit than Poridel, yearned for other, much different, lives. “Happy is the youth whose hand is filled with a sword.” Isn’t that what the mercenaries of his childhood had said when they came through his town?
And did their claim not bear fruit? Poridel, as a child, had seen how those youths who could swim the furthest, climb the highest, run the fastest – Poridel had seen how they grew happy and content. They married. They raised families. They were strong in the field in times of peace, and strong within the militia during times of war.
Yet…was not Poridel’s father happy as well? His mother? Himself? Indeed they were. Above their mantle was not a sword, nor an axe. No. They had what no other family within his hamlet possessed – books. Three of them, to be exact. His favorite had always been the one that told the tales of Mulidan the Mentor, and how he had brought learning unto the barbarians of Gordia.
Poridel smiled at that thought, even now, even in the hell he was now within. His father had once said, “Happy is the youth whose hand is filled with a book – if he can read it!”
Poridel fell back onto the grime of the stone table. Krix was talking to the priest – the man had returned. The sage ignored them. He swiveled his head to one side and smiled at his father.
“I have missed you, son. So much.”
And I you, father. How is mother?
“She is well. There is no pain. Not here.”
Say it for me, father. One last time.
His father, shrouded in the darkness, smiled fondly. “When one awakes, and rolls from his pallet, and strides across the cold rushes to put flame to lantern. When the world is asleep around him. When the whippoorwill sings and crickets speak. When one is alone, in silence, with nothing but a book. That, my son, is glory. That is all the glory a man ever needs, and more besides.”
Yes, father. I know. I have always known.
“I will tell you again, and soon, and often. Be as strong as only one who can appreciate his place in the world may be.”
Krix stepped into view and his father faded. “It is midnight, sage. There. The deed is done.”
“Indeed it is.”
For Poridel then felt the tickle of fingers upon his brain. And, after a moment, heard the whispered message.
He had come calling, as he had each day since Poridel had first left Val Hor. It would soon be over. All of this. Over.
Poridel whispered his own message, smiling in spite of himself, even as Krix leaned forward with anticipation. The sage did not care who heard him – not now - so long as his distant friend did. “Hear me and know I speak the truth. I swear it upon my soul, upon the souls of my father and mother and all those whom I love, and whom love this land for what it can be-”
“Enough,” Krix growled. “Truly, you are insufferable.”
Poridel’s smile only widened. “The men of Olgotha, whom you seek, they left Ciddry for the Duskingdell barrow. I know not how long I have been dead, nor how long I have been here since you raised me. Doubtless the men are there even now.”
Krix smiled thinly. “Ah, I see. So the prophecies did not lie. I admit – I was fearful of such, may Cyric forgive me. Your friends will soon be dead, you know.”
“I know. Some of them. Yes.” Poridel’s smile faded. “But not all.”
Krix shrugged and looked away from Poridel. “Deviom. The horses are saddled, the men are ready?”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Krix eyed Poridel once more. “I suppose you now expect your release.”
Poridel ignored him. There were more important things than the priest, than his own life. “You are Highskull Krix-”
“I know who I am, you fool. Has the madness claimed you, then?”
“You and a hired Melter murdered me in Ciddry some time ago. You seek the men of Olgotha. You now will send your own men to find them in the Duskingdell. They will need aid.”
Krix frowned, confusion flashing across his face. “What is this? You are mad, sage. Yes, yes – you are certainly mad.”
Poridel sighed. It was done. He whispered, one last time, “They will need aid. And soon. They are the ones who hold the hope of this world.”
Krix stood, scowling. “Bah!” The priest walked from Poridel’s sight. “He is insane, but Cyric has blessed us – for he spoke the truth prior to losing himself. Take him with you, Brother Deviom. See that he pays for his stubbornness, but when you near the Duskingdell – waste no more healing potions on him. Ensure he dies. The god has long been without his soul – too long.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
“Yes, yes – as I will.” Krix patted Poridel on the head like a man would a dog. “Show those upstarts of Olgotha what happens to those who stand in our way. Show them his body. You come from a family of performers, yes? Good. Stage something. Something dramatic.”
“As you will, Your Grace.”
Krix looked to Poridel one last time. “Only a few more days of this, friend. And then it will all be over.” Krix grinned like a wolf. “Until, of course, we come for your soul. And then, friend, it will never end. Never.”
Poridel’s face was a sublime mask as madness – finally and irrevocably – overtook him.
***
Destan the Grim*, Fifth Archmage of Val Hor, draped his scrying mirror with cloth reserved for the purpose. “Cleaver.”
A hulking brute in chain and plate stepped forward, wheezing as only half-trolls can do. “Aye, Destan?”
“It has begun. Earlier than I had thought.” The Archmage shared a look that bespoke years of trust with the half-breed behemoth. “Our friend Poridel, the sage, do you remember him?”
“I do. I have his scent.” Cleaver touched a finger to his misshapen nose.
“We speak, from time to time, at this hour. Through my mirror.”
“I know, Destan.” Cleaver’s eyes narrowed in concern.
“Now…now we will speak no more.” The grief was bright in the Archmage’s eyes. “Yet he left us with information; he did his part, we must do ours.” The wizard gripped the half-troll’s elbow and led him to the door of the private sanctum. “Find Archbishop Mariadon – I know the hour is late. I have a task for Anar, but the paladin is on Church’s business now. The Archbishop may grant his leave.”
“May?” Cleaver growled low in his throat. “Tell him what must be done. That is enough.”
Destan flashed a weary smile. “For you, perhaps. But others are not so loyal. Still, Mariadon is a good man. A great man. He will understand.”
“As you say, Destan,” Cleaver rumbled a grudging agreement.
“Go now, please. We have no time. None of us – ever again – will have time.”
The half-troll nodded, opened the door, and stomped down the hallway.
Destan closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, then walked purposefully across his chambers toward a shelf piled with books and sheafs of parchment. There was much to do, many who must know, others who must now be…removed. He would need to inform the Coven, certainly. And the Church of Helm. Lathander. Tempus. Gond? No, perhaps not Gond. Not yet – the pain was still fresh from the loss of Bishop Herryn.
The Archmage pulled a slender libram from his shelf and made toward his reading desk. He stopped, before sitting, and ran fingers across the cover. It was a small book, so much smaller than its fellows upon the shelf. It told of some man who had ventured into the northlands, years ago, so that he might teach raiders’ children to read.
The wizard tenderly opened the cover, read the hastily-scrawled note, “To Destan – Knowledge is Light. Between us, we shall bring both to this world. – Yours, Poridel.”
The book fell to the floor, and Destan fell to his knees shortly thereafter. The Archmage buried his face in his hands. And wept. “Pori…poor, poor Pori. My friend. My dear, dear friend…how I miss you already. How we all…how this world will miss you.”
After a time, Destan heard footfalls in the outer passageway. A guard announced the presence of a Lord of the Church. So, Cleaver had returned with Mariadon. Had he been on the floor so long?
The Archmage used a cantrip to dry the tears from his face, to remove the redness from his eyes. Would that he had a spell to heal his heart. “Pori…you are safe, now. It is better where you are.”
Destan’s face hardened, his tone grew to steel. “For now, here, on this black world, it will be a time of wolves. And revenge.”
* This is the point in the story hour wherein its author feels a bit like a horse’s ass. I was inspired by reading other story hours on these boards for quite some time. One day, I decided to act on that inspiration and write my own. I floundered about for a name to use here on ENWorld for some time, then decided on stealing one from my campaign. At that time, I never really imagined I’d eventually write enough to get to the point wherein that particular character is introduced into the tale. So, readers and friends, I ask your forgiveness. Hopefully you won’t roll your eyes too wildly when you see Destan’s name in print. Unlike Destan the Grim, I'm a beleaguered dad and not an archmage.
