[Mkguild] Last Tale of Yajakali - Chapter XXXII

[C. Matthias]

Chapter XXXII

Beneath the Dark Sky

         “How much farther?” Amile asked, her 
voice weary and thin.  In the gloom of the 
ancient catacombs, her words seemed as dry as the 
bones they passed. “Berkon’s wound hast opened again!”
         “We’re almost there,” Kashin 
replied.  Amongst them all, knights, priests, and 
Magyars, he alone was alert.  But until an hour 
ago, to some extent he had not even existed.
         Had he a left arm, he would have pointed 
ahead.  Instead, he shifted Sir Czestadt’s broken 
leg as gently as he could on his right and nodded 
down the long hallway.  The walls were old clay, 
and in the soft light conjured forth by the 
Questioner Father Akaleth, took on the appearance 
of rust.  Inset in the wall were stacks of burial 
alcoves, most filled with musty skeletons.  Some 
still had coins atop the eyesockets.  Even the 
little thief Gamran was too exhausted to think about adding them to his purse.
         “There, at the end of the hall,” Kashin 
added. “There is a storage chamber the Yeshuel 
use but rarely.  We’ll be safe for the night there.”
         “I dost remember it still,” Nemgas 
muttered, his voice shaken.  Kashin caught his 
eye.  It was like looking in a mirror.  Nemgas 
had a lock of white hair that fell to the left, 
and Kashin’s fell to the right.  The slight crook 
to his nose was there too.  And most visibly, 
Nemgas’s right arm ended just above the elbow, 
the same place Kashin’s left ceased.
         For eight months, Kashin had been an 
unconscious presence in the back of the Magyar’s 
mind.  Now they were split, and he knew it would 
take both of them some time to adjust.
         “Here we are,” Kashin said, pointing his 
stump at an old archway.  Father Akaleth went in 
first, bringing a warm radiance to chambers 
lightly coated in dust.  The storeroom was small, 
with wine shelves, and a few casks of 
foodstuffs.  The other side of the room held 
boxes of candles and ewers of lamp oil.  Several 
more chests were closed, and Kashin knew that 
some of them held linens. “Father, check the 
chests for linens.  We need to lay Berkon and Sir Czestadt somewhere clean.”
         The priest did as instructed while the 
others filed into the chamber.  They were all 
quiet, their faces haggard, eyes 
drooping.  Luckily, Akaleth found a chest of 
linens on the first try.  A few cobwebs clung to 
their surface, but otherwise they were 
clean.  With Amile’s help, he laid a pair down 
flat on the ground.  Grateful, the Magyars set 
Berkon down on the first, while Kashin, Nemgas, 
and Sir Petriz laid the Knight Templar down on the second.
         “Help me fill these lamps with oil,” 
Akaleth said to Amile, handing her one of the 
lamps that had been sitting atop the linen chests.
         “But thou dost make light,” she replied, 
even as she poured a bit of oil into the lamp.
         For a moment Akaleth ignored her, 
focussing instead on lighting the wick with a bit 
of flint.  When the flame grew into a warm yellow 
radiance, he said, “All things have a cost.  Even this.”
         Kashin glanced at Sir Czestadt briefly 
to make sure it was only his legs that were 
broken.  Czestadt’s face was twisted with pain, 
but there was nothing that splints and rest 
couldn’t heal.  He turned to Berkon, about whom 
the Magyars were clustered.  Pelgan was 
inspecting the wound on Berkon’s thigh where a 
Blood Bound had bitten deep into the muscle.  The 
bandages were soaked with blood.  His shirt was 
also stained red where foul claws had gouged into 
his belly.  From Kashin’s vantage, the 
lacerations did not look serious, but the leg wound could kill him.
         “How is he?” Kashin asked.
         “We dost need new binding for the 
wound,” Pelgan said, his voice tight. “Priest.  Canst thee do aught?”
         Akaleth finished setting the lamps 
around the chamber and let his own light fade 
away. “I will try.  Father Kehthaek would be 
better for this, but he does not know where to find us.”
         “If he art where he shouldst,” Nemgas 
pointed out, “then he wilt be where we met ere we 
tracked Jothay.” He turned his eyes upon 
Kashin.  There was uneasiness in them. “Thou dost know where that be.”
         “Aye,” Kashin replied. “I will go and 
bring him here.” He disappeared into the musty 
corridor without making another sound.
         Akaleth knelt beside Berkon, gently 
pushing Pelgan aside.  His fingers nimbly undid 
the bandages around the Magyar’s thigh and 
grimaced at the bloody mess.  Berkon’s breathing 
was tense, his eyes shut tight.  The wound looked 
like an animal bite, and there were places where 
the blood still oozed free.  Akaleth frowned as 
he saw pustules lining the torn flesh. “I shall 
need more of those linens, as well as some 
alcohol to clean this.  And give Berkon something to bite for the pain.”
         Nemgas settled down against an empty 
wall and watched Amile and Gamran jump up to do 
as asked.  His eyes gazed over to the two 
knights.  Sir Petriz had removed several long 
planks of wood from the top of the wine racks and 
was preparing to set Czestadt’s legs.  The man 
who had been their enemy lay with eyes staring 
emptily at the ceiling. “Chamag, help Sir Petriz.”
         The burly Magyar grunted, gave Berkon a 
comforting pat on the chest, and wordlessly rose 
to his feet to assist the knight.  Petriz briefly 
smiled to him, then his focus returned to Czestadt.
         Nemgas ran the fingers of his left hand 
– his only hand – across the stump where his 
elbow used to be.  The skin felt tender, as if 
he’d left it too close to the cook-fires for a 
few hours.  But there was no other sign that he’d 
been cut.  Unnerved, he began rolling up his sleeve to hide the end.
         When he’d secured the end of the sleeve 
to his satisfaction, he returned his attention to 
his friend Berkon. “When didst they wound him?”
         “When he didst fire the arrow that 
struck Jothay,” Kaspel replied.  The archer had 
removed his belt and placed the tough leather 
between Berkon’s teeth. “They took him from below, beasts.”
         “He is not dead,” Akaleth snapped.  The 
priest was dabbing the wound with a fresh linen. “Amile, where is the wine?”
         “Forgive me,” she cried as she brought 
over a bottle. “The rest hath been emptied!”
         Akaleth held the wine bottle one-handed 
and leaned the neck towards Pelgan who crouched 
near Berkon’s feet. “Remove the cork, please.” 
Pelgan swiftly inserted the tip of a dagger into 
the cork.  He gave it several twists before the 
cork came free with a sullen pop.
         The Questioner held the bottle over 
Berkon’s thigh and looked into the man’s face. 
“Are you ready?” Berkon managed to nod his 
head.  Pelgan grabbed his legs and held 
tight.  Kaspel and Gamran each took an 
arm.  Gelel put both his hands on Berkon’s chest, 
while Nemgas slid over and sat opposite Akaleth, 
holding down the archer’s uninjured leg.
         “Clean the wound,” Nemgas 
ordered.  Akaleth pursed his lips and began to 
pour the alcohol.  Immediately Berkon bit down 
hard into the leather and all of his muscles 
tensed.  Gamran nearly lost control of Berkon’s 
arm and had to sit on it to keep it 
still.  Berkon moaned and tried to scream in 
agony as Akaleth rubbed the alcohol throughout 
the wound.  He paid special attention to the 
pustules, making sure he drained each before 
soaking them with wine and gently scrubbing them 
clean.  By the time he was finished, the bottle was nearly empty.
         “That should be enough,” Akaleth 
announced. He wasted no time in tying a new 
bandage in place. “There, that is all I can 
do.  Father Kehthaek will be able to do more.  It 
really needs a poultice to heal, but I have no skill in those arts.”
         “I thank thee for what thou hast done,” 
Nemgas replied, but he could not smile.  He gazed 
past the priest and called, “How art Sir Czestadt?”
         “His legs hath been set,” Chamag replied 
with a grunt. “He shalt not walk for many moons.”
         “When wants to he will walk,” Petriz 
said quietly. “The pain no matter.”
         “Must all Driheli speak such poor 
Galendish?” Pelgan muttered so softly, Nemgas doubted any but he had heard it.
         “So what hath we to do?” Gelel asked, 
his eyes oddly bright.  The young Magyar was 
likely still shaken by what he’d seen that night.
         “Now we must wait for Kashin and Father 
Kehthaek.” Nemgas watched Akaleth curl against a 
chest to get some sleep. With nothing else to do, 
it seemed a good time to ask about the priest’s 
strange gift. “Father Akaleth, how didst thee make the light appear?”
         Akaleth closed his eyes and sighed. “It 
is something I’ve always been able to do.  I 
thought it a thing of evil like magic.  Until 
tonight, I had never shown it to another.  I... I 
still don’t know what to think of it, but for now 
I am happier to have it than not.”
         “For the first time in thy life?”
         “Aye,” Akaleth replied, his lips parting 
in a bemused grin. “Probably so.” He shifted and 
drew one of the linens over his body. “Wake me when Father Kehthaek gets here.”
         A moment later the small chamber deep 
beneath Yesulam was filled with Akaleth’s faint 
snoring.  He was joined by Berkon a moment 
later.  And though the others all yearned to do 
the same, they could do nothing but stare at each 
other, waiting but not knowing for what.

         Father Kehthaek had waited until he’d 
seen the Sondeckis ship disappear down the Yurdon 
river before he’d returned to the underground 
passages where he hoped to reunite with his 
strange allies.  The minutes had dragged into 
hours, and still there was no sign of their 
return.  He sat to offer prayers for their safe 
return, only because his knees had given out an hour before.
         He also prayed for 
Vinsah.  Excommunications were not commonly 
undone, and even then it was not easy.  It took 
acts of penance and reform on the part of the 
petitioner that few men could hope to 
achieve.  In the raccoon’s case, what was there 
for him to do?  He could hardly recant his 
statements considering that many on the Bishop’s 
Council had made similar ones in the past.  And 
he certainly couldn’t become fully human again 
without using magic, one of the reasons for his 
excommunication!  No, the reform needed to take 
place on the Council, and most especially with Patriarch Geshter.
         That Geshter had gone to Marzac to 
perform the exorcism that had been removed from 
the archives was more frightening than Vinsah’s 
expulsion.  An agent of darkness was working 
through the Patriarch to corrupt the 
Ecclesia.  It was only by the grace of Eli that more harm had been avoided.
         But this would do Vinsah little good 
now.  Kehthaek licked his lips and quietly 
prayed, “Holy Father Akabaieth, take my words to 
our Lord Yahshua, whom you served faithfully for 
many years.  I seek comfort for Vinsah who has 
been taken from grace by the Ecclesia he came to 
serve.  Yahshua gave us the Ecclesia, and I pray 
that it will be preserved for Him.  Please, Holy 
Father, pray these things to Eli, our Most High.”
         It was faint, but there was a scuffle as 
of a boot a short distance down the corridor. 
“Amen,” Kehthaek added, made the sign of the yew 
tree before his chest, and then rose to greet whomever had come.
         The figure that emerged from the 
darkness into the small alcove was familiar, but 
not quite in the way he expected.  He was dressed 
in black as if in mourning, with one lock of 
white hair falling across his right brow.  His 
left arm ended in a stump, and in his right he 
gripped the golden Sathmoran blade that Nemgas 
had carried.  It looked like Nemgas, but not quite.
         “Father Kehthaek,” the voice spoke with 
the familiar accent of one who grew up in 
Yesulam. “My name is Kashin.  Our friends wait 
below.  Some of us are injured and need your holy touch to mend.”
         Kehthaek hid the surprise.  Kashin had 
been the Yeshuel who had survived the attack on 
Patriarch Akabaieth.  He had lost his left arm 
above the elbow, but according to Nemgas, he had 
died upon a strange mountain.  Now what should 
have been a ghost was as solid as the walls of the catacombs.
         “Why did they send you?”
         The man frowned and waved the sword 
point in the air. “Jothay is dead, but Berkon and 
Sir Czestadt were both wounded in the 
fight.  Yes, Sir Czestadt is aiding us now.  I 
know my appearance is confusing, but we have no 
time to delay.  There are injured that need healing.”
         Kehthaek did not give any outward sign, 
but he knew that he must go to see to those 
hurt.  That Jothay was apparently dead did not 
fill him with any joy.  He had hoped, even to the 
end, that there might be some way to save the 
Bishop of Eavey from the evil of Marzac.  Now that hope was gone.
         “Lead on,” Kehthaek said at last, 
drawing his black Questioner robe more tightly 
around his chest.  Kashin turned and walked back 
the way he came.  Despite the ache in his legs, 
the elder Questioner had no trouble keeping pace with the once dead Yeshuel.

         At some point, Sir Petriz also succumbed 
to his weariness and dozed as he slumped against 
the wall next to the Knight Templar.  Though Sir 
Czestadt’s eyes were closed, Nemgas very much 
doubted his one-time nemesis was truly 
asleep.  The scar where his blade had cut into 
Czestadt’s face glowed in the lamplight as if the wound were fresh.
         The Magyars each attempted to sleep with 
varying degrees of success.  Berkon’s sleep was 
fitful, but at least he did sleep.  Pelgan and 
Amile huddled together, but neither seemed to 
sleep for more than a few minutes.  Then their 
bodies would twitch as if some ghoulish phantasm 
was waiting for them in their dreams, and they 
would be awake again.  Gamran did not even 
attempt to sleep, turning his juggling balls 
around and around in his hands to settle his 
mind.  Chamag was asleep in one corner, and 
Kaspel looked ready to nod off next to 
him.  Gelel was far too wound up to sleep, and 
was rocking back and forth as he sat, only 
because if he’d paced Kaspel would have thrown something at him.
         Though Nemgas was tired, sore, and in 
need of sleep, his mind would not allow it.  Ever 
since they had escaped the evil temple, his mind 
had been focussed on one thing – Kashin.  After 
Nemgas had climbed down the strange mountain 
Cenziga in the Flatlands, he had always wondered 
how it was possible for him to be.  He could 
remember growing up amongst the Magyars, learning 
all that there was to know amongst his people, 
but he could also remember those few weeks when he did not exist.
         When the Magyars had rescued Kashin from 
the brutal winter snows of the northern Steppe 
last January, Nemgas could no longer remember 
being a separate person.  He was bound up with 
the Yeshuel, their histories intertwined.  Until 
Cenziga, Nemgas may not have existed.  If Kashin 
had not gone to the mountain, would Nemgas have 
ever been?  It was an unsettling question that he had no answer to.
         Now that Kashin was alive again, Nemgas 
could not help but wonder what he was.  Was he 
merely a reflection?  Was he the person Kashin 
would have been had he been born a Magyar instead 
of in Yesulam?  If he and Kashin were seperated, 
why did he still have Kashin’s memories?  And now 
that Kashin had returned, what was there for Nemgas to do, or even to be?
         There was literally no one alive who 
might know the answer to these questions.  Kashin 
would be left wondering just as much as 
he.  Everyone else who had ever felt the touch of 
Cenziga was dead.  The only place where there might be any answers...
         Nemgas lifted his head and gazed at 
Gelel, who had slowly rocked his way closer to 
the older Magyar.  The boy’s face was full of 
confusion and concern, both for Berkon and for 
himself.  There was a needful look in his eyes, 
and so long as the boy would not ask about 
Kashin, anything to distract Nemgas’s thoughts would be welcome.
         “Dost thee wish to say something?” 
Negmas asked quietly.  He leaned back and 
beckoned him closer with his left hand. “We hath 
no other tasks before us now, so thee mayest speak.”
         Gelel nodded and glanced down at Berkon, 
and then over at the priest and the two knights. 
“The evil man wast killed.  The knights no longer 
try to kill us.  Do we hath to stay here still, 
or canst we return to the wagons?”
         Nemgas felt a bit of shame.  This boy 
was trying so hard to be a man, yet here he was 
worried that his fellow Magyars would think him 
craven for his homesickness.  They likely felt 
the same way, but would not say it out of respect 
for Nemgas.  And for Nemgas’s boy, 
Pelurji.  Nemgas reached out his arm, hiding the 
ache that filled his heart at the thought of the 
boy who’d been injured by the Marzac-tainted 
dragon.  He hoped that Pelurji was waking even 
now, but some small voice in the back of his mind 
assured him that it was not so.
         What was worse, that same voice told him 
that there was nothing more he could do about it 
anyway. “I dost not know, Gelel.  We hath done a 
great deal here, but we must see what still needs 
doing ere we can decide that.” He leaned in 
closer, until their foreheads brushed. “My heart 
yearns for the wagons too.  We wilt see them again, I promise thee.”
         Gelel nodded, his face somewhat 
crestfallen.  He was about to ask something more 
when he looked up in surprise.  Nemgas followed 
his gaze and saw two shadows nearing the 
archway.  Though he could make out no details, he 
knew it was Kashin and Kehthaek as surely as if they were standing next to him.
         “Thou hast found him,” Nemgas said 
softly as the pair entered.  Gelel stood up and 
backed up a few steps, eyes greeting the 
black-cloaked Questioner priest warily. 
Kehthaek’s face was distant, and he studied them cautiously.
         “What happened to you?” He asked, 
looking first from Berkon and then to 
Czesadt.  Sir Petriz began to stir slowly, 
blinking sleep from his eyes at the sound of the priest’s voice.
         Kashin slipped past him and swept his 
right hand towards the wounded Magyar. “I will 
tell you once you have examined Berkon.  He is in 
need of Eli’s healing, father.”
         Kehthaek did not nod.  Instead he knelt 
down next to Berkon and rested his hands upon the 
man’s chest.  Gingerly the fingers probed at the 
scratch marks.  After a moment, he said in a soft 
whisper. “These will heal soon.”  He then let his 
hands slide over the already reddening bandage over the Magyar’s thigh.
         The other Magyars were beginning to stir 
now as well.  Kashin sat upon one of the casks of 
foodstuffs, the fingers of his one hand tracing 
along the rim of a lamp.  He let his shadow fall 
across Father Akaleth’s face, and the younger 
priest began to blink in irritation.  A moment 
later he too stretched and rose from his short nap.
         “This is not good,” Kehthaek announced, 
prodding the bandages. “I will need to put a 
poultice on this as soon as I can.  It will not heal properly until we do.”
         “Thy touch heals, be not so?” Gamran asked nervously.
         “Some,” Kehthaek replied. “There is a 
corruption in this wound that must be drawn out 
with herbs and medicines.  Perhaps leeches 
also.  I know where to find them.  But until I 
have them, there is nothing else I can do.”
         “When can you get them?” Kashin asked.
         “I merely need enter the Questioner 
temple.  How long will it take to reach?”
         Kashin frowned for a moment. “It is not 
quite an hour’s walk to the temple 
cellars.  After that it depends on where in the 
temple the medicine supplies are kept.  I can get 
you inside the temple basement, and I can help 
you avoid the Yesbearn and the few priests who 
will be awake at this hour, but you will have to lead me to the medicine.”
         Kehthaek slowly nodded and rose to his 
feet. “Father Akaleth, I would like you to 
discover what in this chamber can be made 
edible.  I will need something to eat upon my return.”
         Akaleth began folding his blanket. “Of 
course, father.  May Eli speed your way.”
         Together, Kashin and Kehthaek left 
through the archway that only a moment before 
they’d entered.  Chamag grunted and laid his head 
back down, “I didst wake for that?”  Beside him, Gamran actually chuckled.

         Nemgas was sure neither of how long it 
was before Kashin and Kehthaek returned, nor of 
how long it had been since any of them had last 
been above ground.  The last time they had seen 
the sky was when they had been in Jothay’s 
quarters.  Sir Czestadt had just beaten the other 
Questioner priest Felsah, and then escaped 
through a secret passage that led them all to 
that malevolent altar.  It had been dusk.  So 
much time had passed since then, but they had no 
way to know if it was still night, or if dawn had already come.
         After the priest had left with Kashin to 
get medicines for Berkon, Nemgas had notched a 
candle to help him measure the passage of 
time.  If he’d done it right, then each notch 
would take a quarter-hour to melt.  It helped 
some, but the wick seemed determined to 
extinguish itself at the slightest hint of 
breeze.  So Nemgas was certain when the two men 
returned shortly after the fourth notch was 
consumed, more than just an hour had passed.
         When Kashin crossed under the archway 
with a small satchel slung over his shoulders and 
a jar of fresh leeches in his hand, most of the 
Magyars were asleep.  Nemgas had fallen asleep 
briefly at one point and had dreamed of Kisaiya 
his betrothed and Pelurji his boy, but he was 
awake now.  He rose and loudly scuffed his boots 
on the cold clay floor. “Thou hast everything?”
         Kehthaek followed Kashin inside and met 
the Magyar’s gaze. “I believe it to be 
so.  Prepare for us food to eat.  Dawn is still 
hours away and there is much to discuss.” This 
surprised Nemgas, but at least he knew now.
         While the others began to stir, Kehthaek 
knelt beside Berkon and undid his bandages.  The 
pustules Akaleth had drained were back, and 
though the flesh had begun to scab, it was still 
moist.  Akaleth revealed himself to be awake 
already, and at the elder Questioner’s request 
for food, he rose from where he reclined to 
produce the uncooked grain he’d found. “It is not 
much, Father, but it is all we have; we dare not 
light a real fire in this place.”
         “It will suffice,” Kehthaek replied.  He 
reached into the satchel Kashin had brought and 
took out a small knife. “Please place something 
between his teeth.” Nemgas took Kaspel’s leather 
belt and set it inside Berkon’s mouth.  Akaleth 
and Kashin helped the Magyar keep Berkon still 
while Kehthaek cut through the pallid 
scab.  Berkon’s eyes snapped open, but he did not 
tense as badly as before.  He was too weary from the pain to feel anymore.
         Kehthaek artfully opened the wound, and 
then using a bit of cloth, drained the pustules 
again. “The leeches will suck the corruption from 
his wound.  Only then can I make the poultice.” 
As he spoke the other Magyars all began to gather 
nearby.  “While we wait, perhaps you can explain 
what happened down there tonight.”
         All eyes turned to Kashin and 
Nemgas.  Both of them gazed at each other, but it 
was Kashin who spoke. “Do you mean to us, or to Jothay and the sword?”
         Kehthaek took a thin, green leech from 
the jar and set it upon one of the pustules.  It 
oozed closer before latching into the flesh. 
“Both,” came the reply. “Everything since you last saw me.”
         “First,” Akaleth interrupted, his eyes 
haunted, “what happened to Felsah?  The last I saw of him was not good.”
         “He is safe,” Kehthaek replied. “More 
than that can wait.  For now you must accept that 
he is beyond our reach.  I will tell you more 
later.  What happened last night is more 
important right now.” Akaleth held back whatever 
more he wished to ask.  Still, the relief was 
plain in his eyes and in the way his body relaxed.
         Kashin waited a moment before he began 
describing all that they’d witnessed, from 
Czestadt’s arrival in Jothay’s quarters, all the 
way to the subterranean temple sinking deeper 
into the earth leaving all entrances 
blocked.  Occasionally one of the Magyars or Sir 
Petriz would interject with some tidbit that 
Nemgas had not seen.  Kashin only knew what 
Nemgas knew of the fight, but in a way, he 
understood its significance better than any of them save perhaps Kehthaek.
         When he was finished, Kehthaek took a 
moment to ponder it while eating some of the 
grain. “So Yajakali’s blade actually bent like an eel?”
         “Aye.  And it drove itself through Jothay and into the stone altar.”
         “And the veins of fulgurite, how many 
did you say radiated from the altar?”
         “Nine,” Akaleth replied. “And each led 
to a pillar upon which was chiselled a 
symbol.  The symbols were different on each pillar.”
         Kehthaek nodded slowly.  He plucked one 
of the leeches from Berkon’s thigh and dropped it 
back in the jar. “It is clear from the way you 
describe it that this altar and temple were old, 
placed here beneath Yesulam many years before the 
Predecessors settled this land.  It had once 
belonged to a series of pagans before Eli 
cleansed it for His people.  One of these pagan tribes must have built it.”
         “Perhaps,” Akaleth mused, “it was built 
for this very night.  The blade seemed to know 
exactly what it wanted.  If it could kill Jothay 
like that, then it could have claimed any of us at any time.”
         “And it had to be tonight,” Kehthaek 
continued for him, “because Jothay and the sword 
have been there for a month at least, likely 
longer.  And we should not overlook the 
significance sorcerers place upon the 
Equinox.  It is said that magical forces wax when 
the stars and planets are aligned, or when they lie in certain configurations.”
         “Aye,” Akaleth agreed.  He reached one 
hand into his sleeve, but then quickly drew it 
out again. “But what were they trying to achieve?”
         Kehthaek turned his gaze to where the 
Knight Templar lay. “Sir Czestadt, did Bishop 
Jothay tell you what he meant to accomplish?”
         The knight did not stir, but he did 
speak in a hoarse whisper. “No.  Nothing me he told.”
         “Then we must assume the blade achieved 
its ends, apart from Father Akaleth vanquishing 
the Shrieker.  There is nothing more we can do 
about it now.  However, its ends are evil, and we 
must work to stop them.  For now,” he gingerly 
removed another leech, “I want to learn more 
about you, Kashin.  You appeared when Nemgas was 
struck with Yajakali’s sword.  How is this possible?”
         Kashin shifted uneasily and stretched 
his fingers. “For the same reason that this 
sword, “ he gestured to the jewelled Sathmoran 
blade at his side, “and Caur-Merripen were not 
shorn in two by Yajakali’s sword — they had all been to Cenziga.”
         The Magyars, except for Nemgas, flinched 
at this name.  Kehthaek removed a third leech and 
studied the wound again. “What is this Cenziga?”
         He took a deep breath and replied, “It 
is the ash mountain of the Steppe.  I know there 
are no mountains in the Flatlands,” he cast a 
quick gaze at Akaleth, upon whose lips that very 
objection died. “But Cenziga is still there.  It 
is strange, like no other mountain I have ever 
seen.  From the west at dusk a blue star shines 
from its summit.  It is the only time it can be 
seen.  When it is close, it appears as nothing 
but a pillar of fog.  And it speaks... it speaks 
in your mind like a drummer beating on a drum.  I 
heard it speak to me on the Steppe, and I had to 
climb it.  I was going to die if I didn’t climb it.”
         Kashin paused, glancing briefly at 
Nemgas.  The Magyar who had climbed down from 
Cenziga said nothing, his eyes firmly fixed on 
the leeches still draining the poison from 
Berkon’s wound.  With an inaudible sigh, Kashin 
continued, “When I reached the summit, I saw a 
spire of power, and faces in the sky.  It was as 
if I stood at the very edge of the world.  Even 
now I cannot make sense of it.  The spire bent 
downwards, and did something.  All I could focus 
on was my name.  And in my head, I called myself 
both Kashin and Nemgas.  What I did not realize 
at the time was that the mountain was splitting 
us apart.  Nemgas was inside me, but he was a 
separate person with his own identity.  The mountain split us.”
         Kehthaek lifted his eyes, the Questioner 
mask firmly planted over his face.  Yet Kashin 
could see a need in those eyes to know more. “And 
yet you died on the mountain?”
         “Aye,” Kashin replied, licking his lips. 
“Or at least it seemed to Nemgas that I died.  He 
saw the mountain destroy me, saw me disintegrate 
in a puff of ash.  But what truly happened was 
that my mind, my identity, all that I was, was 
hidden away inside Nemgas’s mind to be freed when 
the time was right.  That time was tonight, when 
we faced Jothay.  When the power of Marzac 
touched us, Cenziga broke us apart again.  It is 
why we each have only one arm, and why there are 
now two jewelled blades that you can see.”
         Kashin lifted his own, and then gestured 
to the other still buckled at Nemgas’s side. 
“Before, only one of these blades was 
visible.  But the other was always there 
too.  And only one who had been to Cenziga could 
touch it.  It is why poor Grastalko’s left hand 
was burned when he grasped the blade with his 
right.  It is why Sir Czestadt was struck down in 
the desert by what seemed thin air.” Kashin 
chuckled mirthlessly to himself. “And I am not 
the first touched by the mountain to have faced creatures corrupted by Marzac.”
         Kehthaek removed the last leech and 
deposited it in the jar.  He set the jar aside 
and began pulling out herbs from the satchel. 
“Tell me who else has been to this mountain.  Any one living?”
         Kashin shook his head. “Not that I have 
heard.  The only other person I know to have gone 
to the mountain was Pelain of Cheskych.”
         Kehthaek’s hands paused over the wound. 
“Pelain?  Of The Suielman Empire?”
         “You’ve heard of him?”
         “Stories.” Kehthaek resumed applying the 
herbs around the wound.  He used a soft white 
powder that he sprinkled, especially where the 
leeches had sucked. “I have heard stories of 
him.  Tell me how you know he climbed Cenziga.”
         “If you know of Pelain, then you know of 
the city he built at the base of the Vysehrad 
mountains – Cheskych.  Well, while Nemgas and the 
Magyars were in Cheskych, he met a pair of boys, 
one of whom told him that Pelain had climbed the 
ash mountain.  One of the village elders told us 
a tale of how Pelain died.  I had thought... 
pardon me, Nemgas had thought that he would hear 
a tale of Cenziga.  Instead, he heard a tale of a 
dragon corrupted by dark powers far to the 
west.  The dragon was inhabiting the ancient city 
they called Hanlo o bavol-engro, but which we would call Carethedor.”
         Akaleth’s face wanted to sneer, but he 
kept it still. “Carethedor?  That place is a 
legend.  Used to frighten children.”
         “We were there, or rather, the Magyars 
were there.” Kashin gave Akaleth a meaningful 
look. “Do you really doubt that, Father?”
         The younger Questioner took a deep 
breath and shook his head. “After everything I 
have seen, no, I don’t doubt it. Not any more.  I am sorry.  Continue.”
         “Very well, the Magyars went to 
Carethedor, as they all know.  Nemgas and the boy 
Pelurji went into the city, and found their way 
to its centre.  They discovered the bones of the 
dragon, from which hung the skeleton of Pelain, 
still dressed in his signature wolf armour.”
         “Wolf armour?” Sir Petriz asked.
         “The helmet was shaped to make his head 
look like a wolf’s, and the armour was designed 
to give the appearance of silver fur.  It had not 
tarnished despite its age.  There was also a 
grave, and in this grave was Pelain’s body, also 
wearing the wolf armour.  The conclusion was clear, wasn’t it?”
         Nemgas nodded and sighed. “Pelain wast 
two.  Cenziga shore him in two as it hast shorn Kashin and I in two.”
         “And it created a duplicate of 
Caur-Merripen, the silver and black blade that 
Pelain used, as well as his armour.” Kashin took 
a deep breath, glancing at Kehthaek to see if the 
Questioner had any actual questions.  But the 
priest was studiously applying his medicines to 
Berkon’s wound, and would not look up. “The 
dragon came to life while we were there in 
Carethedor, as did both skeletons.  It was the 
boy Pelurji who smote the dragon, using 
Caur-Merripen, a sword he should never have been 
able to pick up.  When Sir Poznan of the Driheli 
came to kill Nemgas who lay prone from what the 
dragon had done to him, Pelurji drove Caur-Merripen through Poznan’s back.”
         Czestadt let out a choking laugh. “By a 
boy Lech killed?” He laughed again, bitterly.
         “Pelurji collapsed after being struck by 
one of the dragon’s bones.  He fell into a sleep, 
and has not woken from it since.  The Magyar seer 
told Nemgas that the only way to wake the boy was 
to destroy the evil that corrupted the 
dragon.  That is why the swords could stand 
against Yajakali’s blade.  They were touched by Cenziga.”
         Kehthaek smiled ever so slightly as his 
hands wrapped fresh bandages around the wound. 
“Interesting.  It is unfortunate though that 
Cenziga itself is utterly unavailable to us.”
         “‘Tis not to be taken lightly,” Nemgas 
snorted. “‘Tis a place of terrible power that I 
assure thee hast killed far more men than it hast 
split.  Whatever power it holds it grants but sparingly.”
         “No doubt,” Kehthaek replied as he pulled the bindings tight.
         “So what dost this tell us?” Chamag asked irritably.
         “It tells us that these swords may yet 
be used to balk Marzac’s power,” Kashin replied.
         “There are others in the Ecclesia under 
Marzac’s influence,” Kehthaek pointed out as he 
finished binding Berkon’s thigh. “We likely can 
do nothing about Yajakali directly, but we can 
eliminate his pawns by cleansing the Ecclesia.”
         “For this will I help,” Czestadt 
announced. “Of the Driheli, home them I will 
send.  Not understand this battle they will.”
         “Stay I will,” Sir Petriz declared. “Me you need will.”
         Czestadt opened his mouth to argue, and 
then closed it in silent assent.
         Kehthaek turned his gaze to Nemgas, his 
eyes surprisingly soft. “You appear 
conflicted.  Do not be.  To cleanse the Ecclesia, 
one must be a part of it.  This is no longer your task.”
         “Dost thee say we casnt leave, and 
return to our wagons?” Amile asked, her eyes 
brightening.  Gelel sat up straighter, and a 
longing filled every pair of Magyar eyes.
         “If it is your choice, yes.” Kehthaek 
laid one hand on Berkon’s leg. “I ask only that 
you stay another day and night so that he may 
recover enough strength to journey with you.”
         Nemgas took a deep breath and turned his 
eyes to Kashin. “I... we must return to our 
people.  Thou hast thy master to avenge.  I hath my boy to save.”
         Kashin nodded and smiled faintly. “May 
Eli bring him back to you.  One day you must 
bring him here so he may know me too.”
         “He knows thee already,” Nemgas replied, 
his face filled with a strange pride. “For he 
hath a brother too.”  Kashin blinked in confusion 
for a moment, and then his smile returned 
stronger than before.  The two men began to laugh 
warmly, each one sounding just like the other.

----------

         “Excommunicato!  Excommunicato!” Geshter 
bellowed, the hammer in his hands crushing 
Vinsah’s body.  He shrieked like a beast, clawing 
and biting to escape from his assailant.  Geshter 
towered over him, cyclopean in stature, the 
breadth of his hammer was wider than the 
raccoon’s head.  But it was each exclamation that 
truly wounded him.  And each time Geshter cried 
out, Vinsah felt himself give in more and more to 
the animal.  At the end, he was reduced to biting 
Geshter’s ankle, naked, while all around him were 
the shattered and smashed symbols of his faith. “Excommunicato in perpetua!”

         Vinsah woke with a strangled cry.  His 
body trembled, but he was not cold.  His eyes 
opened to near total darkness; only a sliver of 
light where the hold opened onto the deck 
revealed anything to his nocturnal vision.
         He was laying in the hold of the 
Sondesharan vessel, nestled between crates filled 
with foodstuffs, parchment, clothing, and other 
supplies needed to support a Bishop and his 
retinue.  The one whom the vessel served, Bishop 
Morean of Sondeshara, was now dead; slain by the 
traitor Jothay because he had discovered part of 
Jothay’s plans.  Now it delivered the raccoon 
from his enemies.  They would take him back to 
Metamor, the one land where Vinsah could be safe.
         But to do what?  Vinsah did not know.
         He pulled the blanket closer around his 
body and slowly stretched his legs and 
toes.  Physically he was fine.  Ever since the 
curses of Metamor had made him a humanoid 
raccoon, he’d been stronger, sharper, keener, and 
in possession of greater endurance than he’d ever 
had before.  After making the long journey 
through Sathmore and the Midlands with Malger the 
marten and Murikeer the skunk, he’d been in even better shape.
         Vinsah groped along the ground until his 
paws found the small pouch.  He gripped it 
tightly, and could feel the broken pieces of his 
yew digging into his palms.  His body trembled 
again.  Spiritually, he’d never been so desolate 
as this.  Excommunicated.  He was forbidden to 
partake of the Eucharist; he could no longer do 
penance for his sins, and he could not be 
forgiven.  Paradise was closed to him now; even 
Purgatory was beyond his reach.  Like the 
crushing of his yew, Geshter had condemned his soul.
         If there could be no hope of Yahshua’s 
mercy and love, then what was there left?
         “Abba!” Vinsah cried in sudden 
anguish.  He beat his fists against the nearest 
crate, chest racked with sobs. “Why?  Why?” But 
unless the Ecclesia granted him the status of a 
Penitential Supplicant, even his prayer would 
afford him little. Prayer was never truly 
ineffective, but in as many ways as are possible 
to men, the excommunicated are cut off from Eli.
         But perhaps not from all of Eli’s 
servants.  Vinsah slid down to his knees, toe 
claws catching in the blanket and pulling it taut 
around his shoulders.  His head pressed against 
the crate as he squeezed the words from his 
throat, “My Lady.  Please come to me.  It is I, 
your Elvmere.  Please!  I... I need you.”
         He did not expect her to come, and in 
that he was not disappointed.  The hold was quiet 
but for the creaking of timbers, the soft cries 
of rats, and the distant voices of the crew.  He 
was alone for now.  If his Lady came to him, it would happen in his sleep.
         But all he had in his sleep now were nightmares.
         Vinsah snarled in sudden fury and tore 
the blanket from his shoulders.  His claws rent 
the fabric, and with a hiss he threw it 
aside.  As he shivered, his anger found voice in 
a beastly growl deep in his throat.  Had one of 
the crew happened upon him in that moment, he 
might lash out as a cornered beast lashes out in 
fear at the one who trapped it.
         When he finally stilled the rage in his 
flesh, the raccoon sat down with his things.  He 
traced his fingers across one of Akabaieth’s 
journals as he reached for the lamp.  Once the 
meagre flame brought some light to his corner of 
the hold, Vinsah took the journal in his lap and 
began flipping through the pages.  It wasn’t 
until he saw his name in the text that he was 
able to read.  His heart tightened in anguish 
when he realized what his mentor was describing.

29 September 691 Cristos Reckoning

         I had the privilege of consecrating a 
new Bishop this day.  Vinsah of Abaef has proven 
to be a capable priest, and will serve as a loyal 
and blameless Bishop for his people, his 
Ecclesia, and his Eli.  The decision to select 
Vinsah was an easy one, a fact that both 
encourages and dismays.  I am encouraged by his 
alacrity for the priesthood, dedication to 
Yahshua and His calling, keen intellect, and most 
especially for his faithful devotion to Yahshua’s 
Ecclesia.  Yet at the same time he is not blinded 
by the politics of our time.  I know he will 
prosper and Eli will bless his ministry.
         What dismays me is that there are so few 
priests like him.  Far too many see the struggles 
in our world as one more reason to become 
insular.  Eli created all people and creatures of 
our world.  To see Eli in all things takes a 
critical but honest eye, one motivated by the 
just love that Yahshua embodies.  It is my hope 
that Bishop Vinsah of Abaef will be a voice of reason and faith on the Council.
         Eli has His plans, and we are permitted 
only humble thanks for being a part of them.  I 
see in Vinsah an opportunity for the Ecclesia to 
right the wrongs of our past... of my past.  I 
pray that in time we can all see and play our 
parts in the vast plans that Eli has created for 
us.  He gave us Yahshua so that we might know 
redemption, and the Ecclesia that we might have 
the barest taste of His kingdom.  Though priests 
make mistakes, Yahshua promised us that His 
Ecclesia would endure forever.  He did not 
promise what form it would endure in.  If we give 
in to our worst instincts, we may see the 
Ecclesia reduced to its ancestral lands.  Our 
foolishness cannot destroy the Ecclesia, but it 
can condemn millions when it should embrace them.
         Enough of fear.  This is a joyous 
day.  Bishop Vinsah of Abaef will bring to the 
Council many admirable traits, not the least of 
which is his trust in Eli and optimism that trust 
engenders.  I am blessed to have his counsel for 
the remaining years of my Pontificate.

         Vinsah stared at the words, trying to 
remember how he felt that day almost sixteen 
years ago now.  Humbled?  Certainly, but also 
excited and grateful.  For a time he’d been heady 
with wonder at all the good he could do as 
Bishop.  Over the years, he’d lost much of that 
reckless enthusiasm, but he’d always tried to 
serve well.  But he had never realized how much 
hope his mentor had invested in him.
         “I’m sorry,” he whispered bitterly. “I failed.”
         Unable to hold back, the raccoon sobbed anew.

----------

         The night air was pleasantly cool 
against Commodore Pythoreaus’s cheeks.  It was 
nearing midnight, and normally at this hour he 
would be asleep, but the steady drone of activity 
down at the wharves had called to him like a 
forgotten love.  And so, one of the commanders of 
the Fleet of Whales had donned his uniform to see his many cherished vessels.
         The sea was filled with a sombre fog, so 
from his bedroom window the wharves appeared a 
blanket of white through which masts emerged like 
dry reeds in a marsh.  After climbing down the 
embankment to the Marine Barracks he saw that the 
fog was not as dense as he first suspected.  It 
ebbed slowly away from the wharves along with the 
tide, revealing ship after ship moored.  The 
vessels were so close that he heard several of 
the deckhands shouting jokes from ship to ship as 
they kept the vessels clean and ready.
         He had spoken with Prince Phil that 
morning, and the rabbit wished to wait until 
there was more news before striking.  But the 
mighty fleet of Whales, the most powerful Navy in 
all the known world, was always ready to set 
sail.  Pythoreaus looked on in pride as he saw how true it was.
         The Marine Barracks overlooked the 
wharves, and afforded a good view of the entire 
bay.  He stood atop a squat tower on the seaward 
side of the barracks, accompanied by two Captains 
who had come into port in the last few 
days.  More would be arriving in the days and 
weeks ahead.  It was rare indeed to see the 
harbour so full.  Already there had been 
complaints from merchant ships that it was taking 
thrice as long as normal to unload their 
goods.  If Prince Phil chose to commandeer their 
vessels, they would complain even louder; for a few minutes at least.
         Just thinking of the rabbit who had 
returned from Metamor to rule in place of his 
ailing father made Pythoreaus glance along the 
escarpment.  The steep hills rose behind them, 
and to his left he could see the palace of Whales 
where his King suffered abed.  His heart trembled 
with concern for his majesty, King Tenomides, who 
had fallen ill at the beginning of the year.  The 
doctors still hoped for a recovery, but it had 
been nine months now.  How could there be any hope for him now?
         “Commodore,” Captain Ioannes said in his 
heavy voice.  He was a large man with scars along 
his arms when an accident had deposited Whalish 
Fire on him.  Even though it had only been enough 
to fill a cup, it was his quick thinking to bury 
his arms in a barrel of sand that had saved him. 
“Have you heard any word on when we will take 
action?  I have been talking with some of the 
other Captains, and none of them seem to have any better idea than I.”
         “Soon,” Pythoreaus replied.  He did not 
like waiting either, and was more abrasive than 
he intended. “I expect we will begin arraying our 
forces soon.  For now, we continue to patrol the 
straits while more ships arrive.”
         “This is more ships than I have ever 
seen in port before,” Captain Erepheus noted.  He 
was young, only made a captain of the Whalish 
Navy a few months before.  Despite the fact that 
he had already served for seven years, there was 
in his eyes the breathless excitement of the new 
recruit, head still filled with tales of 
adventure and glory, not yet come to grips with 
the grit and hard work that was nearly the whole of a sailor’s life.
         “Indeed,” Pythoreaus admitted. “The last 
time I saw so many was during King Tenomides 
coronation.  I was first mate then.  Of the 
Dolphin.” He squinted his eyes at the eastern 
sea. The fog was slowly ebbing away, and he 
thought he saw something moving there. “Ioannes, your spyglass please.”
         Ioannes turned his eye to the fog bank 
and stared even as he passed the spy glass he 
carried on his belt.  Pythoreaus lifted it to his 
eye and turned the long tube until the distant 
fog became clear.  At first all he saw were 
shadows in the distance, dimly illuminated by the 
lights of Whales, but after a moment, he realized they were ships.
         “There are vessels coming out of the 
fog.” Pythoreaus scanned what little he could see 
of them and smiled. “Whalish vessels. More of our fleet.”
         “Why don’t they have torches lit?” 
Ioannes asked, his voice stiff and tense.
         “There’s a little light there,” Erepheus 
pointed out. “Close to the fo’c’sle.”
         Pythoreaus swivelled the spy glass until 
he could see it clearly.  The ships were now 
leaving the fog bank, and he could see that there 
were at least a dozen. “That’s not a lamp,” he 
realized. “That’s the Fire.” His heart beat 
faster, his mind frozen with a sudden fear.  What 
were the ships named?  He found the masthead, and nearly choked in horror.
         “Sound the alarm!  Prepare for attack!” 
he shouted, his voice rising several octaves.
         “What?” Erepheus asked in 
confusion.  Men down on the wharves had not heard 
him and continued working away in blissful ignorance.
         Pythoreaus grabbed Erepheus by his 
collar and throttled him. “Sound the 
alarm!  Those ships are going to attack!  Do it!!”
         Ioannes was already shouting orders to 
the men below.  Pythoreaus turned to the flags to 
signal the watch tower when the lead vessel 
launched its fire.  Unable to breathe, he watched 
that great ball of black flame arc through the 
night sky.  The laughs of the sailors quickly 
turned to cries of panic, and then screams of 
agony as the fire splashed across the deck of the 
easternmost ship, engulfing it in flames.
         “Launch all ships!  Launch all ships!” 
Pythoreaus screamed.  Another ball of fire 
screamed through the air, as the attackers, ships 
of Whales and crewed by men of Whales, but all 
corrupted by an evil they could not fight, 
continued to bear down on the wharves.  The 
screams echoed up, and Pythoreaus watched a 
burning man leap into the sea, only to continue 
to burn and sink like a glowing ember beneath the surface.
         But there was nothing the Commodore 
could do anymore.  The sailors could see their 
danger, but now all of them were trying to escape 
at once.  They might do more damage to 
themselves.  Already, the fire had spread from the first ship onto a second.
         Behind him, a high pitched wail began to 
cry.  The alarm.  Too late to do anyone any 
good.  Pythoreaus refused to weep as he watched 
the mighty fleet of Whales one by one begin to 
burn with their own secret flame.

         At the scream of the tocsin, Phil leapt 
from his bed.  His wife stirred but slowly, 
unused to his military training.  The rabbit 
bounded to his balcony overlooking the harbour 
and gasped in horror.  A nightmare lay below him, 
as several Whalish ships in the southeast 
launched volley after volley of fire at the 
dockyards.  The liquid flame had spread over the 
decks of several ships already, while only one or 
two of their own fleet had managed to leave the dock.
         Phil’s mind tried to comprehend the 
scene before him.  So much death and so many 
screams of terror rising to his ears.  His own 
joined them, and he threw himself at the floor, 
his mind retreating into a safe place in the back 
of his head.  As the fires raged below and men 
died, the Prince of Whales busied himself with 
trying to dig a hole in the masonry to hide.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias