The Earthrin Stones 2 of 3: Trials of Faith Page 7

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  Fires burned unchecked amongst several village shops and dwellings. The pall of smoke which hung over the village darkened the nearly abandoned streets. The wind carried embers to nearby rooftops, but none of the surviving villagers were able to fight the fires. Families and acquaintances huddled in the dark recesses of whatever homes they had found shelter. No candles or hearth fires were lit. Crying children were hushed behind barricaded doors. Beyond the walls of their dwellings, they could hear the invaders moving about the streets. With the threat of death lingering so near, all the villagers nervously hid in silence and shadows, clutching their loved ones or makeshift weapons.

  The armed raiders walked unopposed in the streets, illuminated by red fires against the dark backdrop of smoke. Some patrolled the alleys in small bands. These bands did not seek out the hiding villagers for slaughter, but they often banged weapons against walls and doors. It was more of a scare tactic than anything else. Most of the strangers were concentrated around the main street of Troutbrook. Their attention focused around the Church of the Sacred Harvest. Blades and bows encircled the building. The swordsmen did not approach the entry, though the door had already been torn from its hinges. They showed little emotion over several bodies near the door of the church. The dead included many church acolytes and young priests. The riders were not a particularly disciplined lot, yet they had performed well at the slaughter for which they had been paid. Some whispers were exchanged as they waited and watched the church entry. The words passing between them spoke of how they would spend their blood money, or offered cruel jokes at the expense of the recently departed.

  A hush settled over the circle of swordsmen when figures emerged from the doorway of the church. The first to exit wore armor decorated to befit a priestess. Her holy symbols and representations of her deity were etched into the surfaces of the battle-ready metal. This was no follower of Yestreal that exited his holy ground; instead this was an abbess of the Goddess of Death. The contoured armor showed her feminine features, yet many would have been too frightened by the dark symbols of the visions of death that adorned the outfit. Her cold, blue eyes swept the street from behind the hollow sockets of her skull helm. Short, blonde hair peeked out from under the edges of the helm. At her side she carried her favorite weapon: a flail. The weapon had been enchanted by one of her miracles, casting a glow of darkness about the spiked ball on the end. Hebden had already recognized her earlier in the day. Savannah was an abbess of DeLaris, and her presence in Troutbrook would be unwelcome even if not joined by swordsmen.

  Four years ago she arrived in the village with friends and together they stole the holy relic of the church. When Trestan, Cat and their companions were able to recapture the relic and two other similar relics, Savannah and her accomplice Revwar had last been seen on an island out at sea. The companions from Troutbrook escaped the island by taking the only ship anchored there, so it was thought that Savannah and her party were marooned on the island.

  Savannah strode confidently out into the street in front of the church, heedless of the wind-blown embers. One of her previous accomplices followed her out of the ruined door of the church. The wizard Revwar had changed little in the intervening years. His silver hair grew long and braided, while his piercing yellow eyes took in every detail as he walked. His long, angular elvish face remained impassive as he stepped over a body near the door. He wore long dark robes, filled with many hidden pockets and arcane surprises. The elf’s wardrobe had been made from the finest materials. In his right hand he carried a new staff. Like his old one, it had many runes carved into its side, allowing him to access many powers stored within the magical vessel. A long, thin dagger adorned his belt, yet Revwar rarely resorted to such desperate means of defending himself.

  While Revwar and Savannah shared masks of cold indifference as they participated in the raid, something in Savannah’s eyes existed atypical of her nature. Though the concentration of everyone else focused on the church, her eyes often scanned up and down the abandoned street. Her glances revealed some urgent need; an unsatisfied call lurking in the depths of her mind. She sought a resolution for that hunger somewhere among the buildings of the town. Whatever it was she tried to find, it did not manifest for her convenience.

  Two more figures emerged from the church entrance behind Revwar and Savannah. The first of the two was well known on the streets of Troutbrook. Head Priest Gerlach ranked highest in Yestreal’s sanctuary. In good days he assumed a father figure to the community, always offering comfort while wearing the mantle of his office. This evening found him disheveled and dazed. His eyes glazed over under the effects of some enchantment. He stumbled outside, heedless of the bodies of his brothers. In every step he took, one could sense that the chains of some entrapping spell held his will prisoner. He moved towards the well in front of the Church of the Sacred Harvest. With every heavy footfall, his outstretched hands moved closer to the green relic stone which stood perched upon that well. The stone stood protected from theft by numerous energies woven around it; a mixture of magic and miracles set forth by the priest and by the elf wizard Korrelothar. High Priest Gerlach moved in a direct line towards the magical stone, mumbling words as he went.

  “Yestreal, my lord, I am coming.”

  The second figure followed Gerlach closely. While the priest was dressed in disarray, the human male following him wore fine clothes. The man’s attire mirrored the fashions of the great city Orlaun; featuring many layers of clothing, some parts frilly with lace and featuring puffed out, bloused sleeves. Jentan Mollamos was middle-aged, yet handsome and he wore his age well. His charming looks and distinguished dress contrasted the armed warriors watching the spectacle. Jentan had thick, black hair, peppered with gray around the sideburns and near his brow. He had full dark eyebrows, once again mixed with gray, overshadowing his intelligent, brown eyes. Upon his face he had a small mustache, thinly trimmed, as well as a small, pointed goatee.

  An observer might be unnerved to see the constant grin on his face, almost as if it had been set that way from years of using his smiles and wit. Jentan was ever a charmer more than a fighter. As a mentalist, he had studied exclusively in the branch of magic dealing with the powers of the mind. To him, true power was to be able to affect, alter, and control the minds of others. He carried a wand at his belt for personal defense, but his arcane gift involved the ability to tap the harmonic web from which bards and minstrels draw their magical talents. Using the harmonic web, he could use the sound from his voice in the right inflections and rhythms to hypnotize foes. Those powers extended to affect people’s perceptions of their surroundings.

  Jentan Mollamos followed the head cleric to the well. During the entire time, the mentalist kept a steady flow of arcane-empowered whispers to distract the priest’s mind. High Priest Gerlach responded as if in a dream. More appropriately, the cleric felt as if he was inside a vision revealed by his deity, Yestreal. The effort was taxing to Jentan, for it was not easy to trick a priest as powerful as this one in such a way.

  High Priest Gerlach reached the edge of the well. Once there the cleric simply stared at the holy relic. The egg-shaped relic was made from green stone, covered with strange white markings. Gerlach’s hands dropped to his sides as he spoke out loud to his perceived deity. “I am unable touch it my lord, for Korrelothar also wove magical protections about it. I need his help to unravel the bonds.”

  Jentan replied to Gerlach, casting his voice in an almost musical resonance. The words carried to the cleric’s ears on the waves of arcane power. “Korrelothar stands here beside you, ready to assist.”

  Gerlach’s glazed eyes looked to the side where Revwar stood. The elvish wizard did not bear a close resemblance to Korrelothar, but he knew Gerlach saw what Jentan told him to see. Gerlach smiled to the image of Korrelothar. “Hello, my friend. ‘Tis good to see you again.”

  Revwar only nodded, afraid that a spoken reply might shatter Jentan’s fragile hold on Gerlach’s s
enses. Jentan whispered more words into the cleric’s ears, reinforcing the mental illusion. In doing so, he also reiterated that Yestreal called upon his faithful priest to unlock the relic from its magical bonds.

  Gerlach began a prayer designed to undo the god-given miracle which secretly held the relic in place. Revwar waited for his cue to begin casting his own dispel measures. The elf became slightly distracted by the lack of attentiveness from Savannah. The abbess of DeLaris once again searched the streets with her eyes, trying to uncover the specter haunting her dreams. At Jentan’s nod, Revwar ignored the woman to begin casting his own spell. Revwar worked to unravel the arcane wards on the relic, while Gerlach removed the miraculous ones. Three disjointed voices worked at once. Revwar stripped away the magic Korrelothar had placed, Gerlach undid his own miracles under the guise of a vision, and Jentan kept whispering spells in Gerlach’s ear to reinforce the illusion. The air around the stone seemed to shimmer. Particles and streamers of light seemed to peel off of the surface of the stone before fading into nothing.

  High Priest Gerlach’s hands dropped to his sides, “It is as you have asked. The stone has been freed.”

  Revwar enjoyed a genuine smile as the wards disappeared. The smile did not last long before Savannah walked closer, and the elf wizard could foresee what would happen next. Would the woman disrupt their plans?

  “Ask him,” Savannah glared at Jentan, “I have to know.”

  Jentan ever so slightly shook his head, as his deceiving words still held the priest of Yestreal in limbo. Revwar responded on his behalf, speaking in a whisper to Savannah. “It is difficult for Jentan to keep the charade up for long. It is better that we spend our time having the high priest recite what he knows of the stone from their records.”

  Savannah scoffed at that, “It was clear the last time we took it that we know a lot more about its properties than anyone here does. I have business here other than the relic. Since we are here I would see both edicts of my goddess fulfilled.”

  “One is a lot more important than the other,” Revwar reminded her.

  Savannah’s cold, blue eyes returned an icy stare at the elf’s impassionate gold orbs. The abbess turned to face Gerlach, despite a warning motion from Jentan. Savannah stood before the priest, unworried that he would perceive her decorated armor. Jentan’s whisperings became more urgent, as the priest of Yestreal tried to make out what was standing before him.

  “Where is Petrow? Tell me where he lives!” The servant of DeLaris demanded.

  Yestreal’s faithful disciple puzzled at the request. He tilted his head to regard the undefined figure before him. “Petrow? Well…he lives not far from here. Why…who asks?”

  Jentan struggled to keep his harmonic spell around the head priest. Revwar saw something uncommon from the abbess: seething anger to the point she was losing her self control. Savannah promptly spoiled the illusionary spell in her anger. Forgetting herself, she reached out with her left hand and grabbed a fistful of the cleric’s robe. “Where might I find Petrow?”

  Gerlach’s eyes lost their glaze as his vision opened before him. In an instant the mesmerizing spell shattered. Gerlach saw the armed riders, the flames, the dark design of Savannah’s armor, and the blood of the villagers on the ground. He remembered the cries and screams of his brethren, as well as undoing the miracle which held the holy relic safe.

  The head priest tried to react quickly to defend himself. Taking a quick step back, but still held by the abbess, he began to utter the words of a miracle. “Yestreal, grant me the means…”

  Jentan stepped back as well. The mentalist tried to speak another spell to disillusion Gerlach.

  Savannah’s response proved quicker and more lethal. The flail trailed a streamer of dark shadow as its enchanted head swung about. The abbess of the Death Goddess screamed her rage as the spiked ball came down on the head of Yestreal’s servant. Gerlach’s skull shattered under the empowered weapon. Bits of bone and blood spattered the handsome face of Jentan Mollamos, causing him to recoil.

  The body of the priest dropped beside the well.

  Revwar’s face took on his normal, impassive mask. Stepping over the fallen corpse, the elf reached out and took the holy relic from its resting place. He did not waste any glances in Savannah’s direction.

  However, the wizard’s words were directed at her, “It is time that we left. We have business that can’t be delayed.”

  The abbess breathed heavily, though Revwar did not understand what taxed the woman’s strength. She stared at him from behind her skull helm. “We won’t leave yet. We will use the swordsmen if we must, but we will find out where he is hiding.”

  Revwar did spare a puzzling glance towards her at those words. “Bust down every door, tear down every shutter in the village and the outlying farms searching for someone who may not be here? We did not hire enough swords to flush out every villager in a timely manner looking for one man.”

  Savannah replied. “I claimed his life once for my goddess. As long as he lives, it haunts me. Petrow must die.”

  Revwar understood what Savannah said, but could not fathom the depth of it. He could not understand why it vexed her so much. Often he knew that clerics of the Death Goddess claimed a certain control over death itself, and they accentuated this point on a battlefield. When an enemy lay helpless before such a cleric, they would often announce whether they claim or spare the life of the person. Even when a life was spared, it wasn’t for pity or benevolence. The whole point of the event was to stress the control their goddess had over life and death. Revwar knew that during their last battle, Savannah had claimed to take Petrow’s life for her goddess and she proceeded to strangle the life from him. Instead, Savannah failed to finish the kill, and Petrow escaped death.

  It was of little consequence as far as Revwar was concerned. The elf came up close to Savannah’s angry glare for his reply. “He will die, but not today.”

  Savannah stood silent before the elf as he spoke close to her fearsome skull helm. “This task is done on behalf of your goddess, as well as another goddess. Its importance weighs more heavily upon us than fulfilling a vow to claim the life of one insignificant man.”

  To one side, Jentan took a cloth and daintily dabbed at his face to remove the remains of the head cleric of Yestreal. Revwar bent even closer to Savannah, whispering words so that the nearby raiders would not hear. “You know these men accompanying us are already dead. That was part of the plan after all. The ones who rode north are more than a match for anyone Lord Verantir sends to help the village, if he will bother to send anyone. However, Kashmer will not tolerate such a vile attack within its borders. These men will never live to spend their gold, but by that time we will slip away as planned. With strength we take the relic, but we have little time to spare if we intend to get to the south and separate from these thugs before Kashmer privateers or militia kill the men they will hold responsible for the attack. Time is our enemy, Savannah.”

  Revwar patted the bag which now held Troutbrook’s stolen relic. “We will again be pursued for this. Last time our plans were destroyed by a band of inexperienced children. Petrow is nothing, yet this relic is everything. This binds you to a higher duty than your claim to kill one man.”

  Savannah said nothing. The woman remained still, though she had calmed her breathing. Yet, the abbess did not show signs of backing down. Revwar decided to play one more hunch. “You suffer from nightmares?”

  Revwar saw something he thought he would never see in his companion. Savannah actually flinched, and her eyes widened slightly out of fear. The elf wizard knew he had hit a vulnerable spot. “What do you think the nightmares will be like if you fail this task?”

  Savannah could not hide the fear in her eyes. Revwar did not know why the woman acted as she did, why Petrow consumed her thoughts and how she could be unnerved by nightmares. Truthfully, it did not concern him. What mattered most was that they had this relic in their possession again, and had plans to set into m
otion. Savannah could no longer meet Revwar’s eyes. The blonde abbess consented to his point of view by shying away and walking to her horse. Jentan also took her cue and moved to his own mount.

  Satisfied that Savannah would continue with the original plan, Revwar turned to face the other riders. “We have the item for which we came. It is time to depart, and swiftly.”

  Revwar, Savannah and Jentan Mollamos rode south out of the town with the horde of armed riders. They left behind burning buildings, shattered families, a slaughtered church clergy, and a wounded smith who was the father of paladin-aspirant Trestan Karok.

  CHAPTER 4 “Homecoming”

  It was not the homecoming Trestan had expected.

  Though Trestan appreciated having Cat by his side once again, the ride south was more devoid of conversation than either would have preferred. With the worries over Trestan’s father and the knowledge of the damage to Troutbrook, not enough magic existed in the air to conjure smiles or jests. Despite the silent moments, his lover bolstered Trestan’s spirit. Cat’s presence became a pillar of support even without words. The half-elf’s companionship gave him a solid foundation to cling to as his heart dealt with this tragedy.

  On Jherad the 5th, the third day after the Embarking, Trestan rode into the outskirts of his village. A drizzle of rain wet the clothes to match the dampened spirits. Trestan and Cat rode with cloaks to protect them from the outward chill, but had little protection from the inward chills except the bond between them. Under his cloak, Trestan wore his armor. The breastplate and other portions of it proudly displayed his symbols of Abriana. He wore the coraross symbol necklace openly. He thought it fitting that on his ride home he should dress in the style earned through his years of training at the seminary. With magical elvish sword strapped to his back, and the forged warhammer at his side, Trestan’s appearance differed from the smith who once left this small village.