Michael Chatfield
patreon
Four Horsemen Chapter 5 Part 1 of 1
🕑 Added 2023-10-05 11:00:02 +0000 UTCChapter 5:
Celestia ran through the halls of the sacred sanctum, the place closest to the gods of the Geraxi Empire. The mandates and prostlates glared at her but she paid them no heed, her feet ringing off the inlaid marble floor as she jumped up two steps at a time past murals depicting the wrath of the gods, their benevolence towards their followers.
They were in great numbers, they had been ever since that cursed battle with Ilus.
Celestia had wanted to run through these halls ever since she was made a courier of the pantheon. A glorified letter carrier with its own fine uniform, horses and sigils.
There was no glee as she raced onwards, pale and sweating.
Guards, faceless in their Dimantium armor crossed their weapons in warning as she approached.
She drew out a sigil that glowed with the holy light of the unified pantheon. The guards four hastily withdrawing their weapons and strained to open the five meters tall and a half meter thick doors.
“Who dares?” A voice that was several blended together declared as pressure slammed into her. Celestia lost her feet as she slammed into the ground, a lifetime of training and escaping violence saved her as she got her arm up.
“Message from the vaults!” She held up the sigil with her other arm.
“The vaults?” The man-thing’s rage grew.
This is a bad fucking idea.
“Your sister’s items have disappeared.”
Marble crunched under the man’s foot.
The doors to the room, slammed shut. It had taken four red cored guards to open swiftly. She felt his presence over her though she knew not when he had moved. Her life hung on a clifftop a single feather to be blown into the vast abyss and lost forever or back upon the land.
“Explain,” The voices called out together.
“They were under watch and they disappeared. It was said they were summoned.”
A step, the feather drifted towards the safety of the land.
“Send the hunters, find whoever summoned them and destroy them.”
“Yes champion Vessali,” She rose up to her feet, keeping her eyes on the ground as she backed up. The doors swung open as if paper in the wind.
“Desari still lives.”
Mana; elemental, material and divine fluctuated through the room.
“With her knowledge we will find Ilus, we will drain their populous and bring our pantheon to greater heights,” Another voice a deeper ancient thing that made Celestia’s stomach turn over said.
She spared a glance up as the doors closed. A man of mottled white and black, horns growing from his head in the shape of a crown. Only less grand than the horns the gods themselves wore.
The doors shut and she took off at a run, her back slick with sweat. Don’t kill the messenger was a joke among the Empire’s elite. Not one that she intended to be the butt of.
She had never been happier to seek out the twisted soul sniffers.
***
Lord Gallus, First Sacrophyte of the Veldian Kingdom steps rang out through the hallowed halls of the Inscriptorium.
His robes the finest silks with runes masterfully sown into the material. Denoting his high position and accolades.
Sacrophytes, holy clerics and craftsmen of the most High God-Emperor Xander clasped their hands and bowed in supplication. Many with limbs, eyes and even mouths of crude metal. Their holy work consuming their bodies as they continued forth.
His own legs had been crushed when a chosen was anointed and united with his Sarcophagi Immoratalis. His arms taken in a separate incident, his eye and mouth burned away by a misaligned inscription.
Each piece hand crafted with impeccable detail. A Sacrophyte did not trust others to build their inscriptions. For they knew the secrets in these hallowed halls.
Ornate doors, three stories tall, groaned as Inscriptorium guards—more metal than men—clanked as they pushed the doors open to the Sanctus Renatus and screams beyond.
Gallus would have grinned if his mouth was not made of metal.
Incense burned thick and heavy, Sacrophytes wore sacred clothing, their masks filtering out the incense lest it dull their senses.
Gallus and his attendees walked through. Along the walls, stood stone carved renditions of Anointed, armed and armored. Their accolades affirmed to their armor and the names of the Sacrophytes carved into the pedestal below.
A door opened, revealing the bloody side within. The Chosen was bolted into their backplate, their stomach opened as inscribed plates were placed around their core. The Inscriptions lighting up as they interacted with the core.
The chosen screamed, his body bucking as he looked over the ruin of his body, through the door and at Gallus, pleading with him.
The man’s Sarcohagi Immortalis, his walking coffin, his armor stood to the side, ready to entomb him from this day forth.
For every Chosen to rise as an immortal, twenty would not survive the process.
The door closed, Lord Gallus’ steps never ceased. Hundreds had looked at him with those very eyes. The halls of the Inscriptorium held no mercy, only will and determination.
Gallus’ eyes fell on the set of armor against one wall, its top missing and cracked, the pedestal’s names carved out.
He’d personally checked the names were removed, and struck the names from the records. He had been one of the creators after all.
The Iron Fist of Veldian, a man that had walked a hundred battlefields, his very name a curse on the breath of their enemies. A cry for salvation among their armies.
His right limb creaked with pressure before he released it. The new name chanted in the streets, across the kingdom, with fear, with reverence. Godslayer.
He glared at the ruined armor and turned away, a corner of his mind remembered the laughter that tore free from the man’s chest as he was fused with his armor.
Gallus passed into the inner sanctum, where Sacrophytes created Sarcophagi Immortalias.
Two of the newly anointed patrolled the halls, their armor black, unmarred by battle. Created after the fall of Xander with oaths to the Inscriptorium.
Anyone with a core was ripe for his usage, for their power, he rewarded them with pain and servitude that protected his halls.
Their footfalls resounded through the space, monotonous and heavy, shaking the ground around them. Two and a half meters tall, hundreds of kilograms that only a chosen with their cores could wear. They paused their patrol and sunk to a knee, bowing their heads to Gallus as was right.
Doors opened, heads and metal were lowered in his passing.
He heard the two anointed rise, and continued their patrol.
He reached a set of two story doors, ornate in their construction, completely forged of alloyed steel, with gold and silver embellishments and inscription.
Gallus reached out with his metal hand, pressing it upon the door.
Runes lit up the door as he fed in his mana in an unseen sequence. Locks clicked and shifted with the solid noises of metal upon metal. The runes reached the edges of the door, the ceiling and the roof with a final solid click.
The doors swung inward with a groan and rush of air as its bulk moved.
Sets of armor lay upon the sides of the room, altars held various pieces. Forges lined the walls, glowing with molten metals ready to be poured.
Nearly three meters tall stood a dominating set of armor, its bottom half identical to the remains of that statue.
The top stripped of its markings. Runes, red as poured blood lay along the seams of the armor, glowing with a faint light as if to mock his efforts to open it.
Next to it was what the unknowning might think was a fine statue of a war horse made from hardened steel. The mount, suited the set of armor with its oversized proportions.
Its side had been hacked open, revealing complex inscriptions linked together. Ignus, mount of the Iron Champion, mount of Valter.
The fighting had slowed these three years. It was only the weapons of the Sacrophytes that kept those from the kingdom and beyond from stealing their hallowed secrets.
Their libraries had been burned and desecrated. Making the armor of the previous generation of champions all the more valuable.
Peace, accursed peace had been created with several nations. Parts of the Kingdom had rebelled and separated once more.
They were cursed and shunned. Though he would show them his might, the power of the Sacrophytes and their inscription.
Valter had changed his armor, altered it into something he had never seen before. He’d studied the archives and libraries even more dutifully than Sacrophytes.
It galled him that such a creature, a chosen who’s purpose was to fill the armor to power his creation, had been able to improve his own work.
He breathed through his nose, calming himself as he reached his station behind the iron champion’s gear. A unit of iron champions and they would be able to right everything. The kingdom step forth once more, this time under his own guidance.
For all his aspirations, the Iron Champion had killed a god.
Gallus reached out for his tools, studying the armor. His entourage spread through the room, to pour and cast, to carve and press, to create another set of Sarcophagi Immortalias.
Mana was torn from the room, Gallus’ eye went blank, his hands falling limp to his sides as he stumbled backwards on no longer powered legs, crashing to the ground. Others collapsed in states of chaos.
Gallus’ stomach churned, his skin cold.
Runes along the armor flared with power. Ignus’ eyes brightened.
Metal carved from her side shot out of cabinets and from altar, one Sacrophyte was hit in the head, spitting blood as he dropped to the ground bonelessly.
Ignus stomped her feet, her eyes burning flame, her inscriptions molten metal.
She looked over the room and snorted smoke.
Armor, horse, weapons and any gear disappeared as if it never existed.
Gallus inscriptions started functioning again, he walked over to where Ignus had been, rubbing his hand on the patch of black soot.
The rebels praised the iron champion, man bound by god, oath and armor. A man that gave his life to free his kingdom and this world of a terror.
The Iron champion lives. The thought rocked his core. The simple set of armor, a man of unknown origins, the finest smith and inscriptionist of the Veldian Kingdom. Alive, and free.
Gallus staggered upright, his eyes wild.
“Word is not to spread to another soul or I will have yours as payment,” He turned on the others in the room.
They bowed their heads. He would need to work faster to create his anointed champions.
***
Braden, once foremaster of the Mardun traders, son of the first captain Draden Mardun sat at his desk, studying contracts.
In a single sweep they’d removed the lich-kings of the fleet. Hundreds had died in the fighting, but it had been put to rest. His father’s and mother’s soul was freed from the dark-gods of the seas. The trader’s attempts to raise a god was culled.
The power they had become ruling the very seas after the destruction of the pirates had been crushed. Five years had passed.
Braden’s shoulder’s itched, he glanced back at the broken soul containers. A pipe carved from the bone of a sea-beast. An uncut diamond. A coin of unknown origin. The pipe was cracked. The diamond powdered. The coin with a savage cut through it.
Each swore an oath to him as foremaster. An oath he used to bring about their end. He sneered at them. Fools, thinking they could escape the gods and be equals to kings.
His eyes fell on a tri-corn hat in the middle of the soul containers. It was in three parts.
He heard a silent laugh, a shiver running down his back.
He turned back to his papers.
“The seasons change and they cycles turn.” Ten years had passed, still there were Mardun holdouts. The vaunted captains and their crew were the best to be found upon the seas. They knew secrets even he didn’t understand or was told about.
It mattered little, there were so few of them. He picked up a new report. “More pirates appearing.” He shook his head. Little kingdoms playing little games.
The weak navies had started peacocking around as soon as the Mardun were gone, trying to out-do one another with the ships they’d been sold from the pirates. Not one Mardun ship was taken intact or without a terrifying fight.
“Why call them pirates? Think its to hide the truth that all the kingdoms are fielding their navies as privateers to try and steal one another’s wealth now there is no other threat?” He snorted. Idiots, the Madrun, the kingdoms, the gods.
He had his contract, a place within a nice celestial realm when he died, a place for his mother and father. The rest could burn. When he died it would be to the relief of his father’s eyes, his thanks and gratitude for relieving him of his maddening torture.
His mother would stroke his head and thank him, then they would spend their days in bliss without cares and worries. The material plane mattered little when it was only years of a person’s life.
Mana shifted behind him. Braden turned, pulling pistol and soul-killer blade from under his desk.
The hat’s fibers reached out to one another and started melding together, the hat reforming.
“No, no it can’t be, your dead!”
The hat disappeared.
Braden’s pistol was shaking. “No, it can’t be, I-I stabbed you.” He tilted the soul-killer and looked at the blade’s runes.
He didn’t trust his mouth to say the words. Mad Mya rises once more. “The soul chests.” No wonder the gods had been so pissed and pushed for every last Mardun trader to be hunted down.
“They don’t have the chests.”
He staggered back to his desk, his mind a mess.
***
Esal’s pure robes of an acolyte priestess had been replaced with the rough-spun brown and grey stained clothes of a rural trader.
She weaved her way through the bustling streets of Aemir, the majestic capital of the Aeld Kingdom. The city's grand architecture, adorned with symbols of the Goddess Yasseen, loomed above her as a constant reminder of the deity's influence.
She passed through the maze of roads and alleyways reaching a tavern just outside the warehouse district.
Even in the early afternoon it was already bustling with traders and merchants eager to capitalize on the city's opportunities, warehouse workers getting an early drink in, caravan guards and drivers spending their earnings.
The lively atmosphere enveloped her as she entered, the sound of boisterous conversations and clinking mugs filling her ears. Her eyes scanned the room. Since being awakened all of her senses had heightened.
Two familiar sets of eyes looked up at her, causing her to break out into a smile as she weaved through the full room to sit with them.
Rasheed was no longer the young man that watched the gates and the roads. His weathered features betrayed his A traveler in garb and in practice.
“How was your travels?”
“Eventful,” Rasheed said. “We’ve established a trade route throughout the kingdom, trade with the farmers mainly. Most people’s beliefs are firm as bedrock. Though we’ve found more and more tales from across the land of Yasseen’s actions. Word is spreading.”
“Trade isn’t doing too badly either.”
“With everyone’s trust in one another we’ve been able to create an extensive network across the kingdom and beyond. Did you hear about Evondale?”
“No,” Esal grimaced.
“Nice little town, champions came in and killed the people, used them for a ritual to summon a demon. Thankfully we were able to get a few people over there, killed the champions and the demon. Just altered their tale a bit.”
Brynne let out a low breath, his hand tightening around his cup but not taking a sip. The last four years he hadn’t nearly cut into the drink as he once did.
“There were groups from the village out hunting,” Rasheed continued. “They came back as the champions raised the demons and fled. We found them and had to whisk them away through the network, move them to other farms. Several villages have pledged themselves to us. We’re going to need a change in priests in a few locations,” Rasheed slid a piece of paper across the table.
Esal took it, tucking it into a pocket.
“I’ll get that sorted out.”
“Thanks.” Rasheed pressed his lips into a smile. “So, how goes things here?”
“Yasseen is doing more services than ever, blessing the fields and such. Wheat and other food stuffs that can keep are way up this year. They’re getting ready,” Esal said.
“Skirmishes on the border, army getting sent out to deal with darker things. Its starting to escalate. Propoganda is starting to fill the streets and men’s ears,” Brynne said. He opened his hand, keeping himself from crushing the mug.
Her fellow awakened had continued to work on his overall strength.
“Made Captain already Brynne?” Rasheed grinned.
Brynne rubbed the back of his head. He’d filled out in the last four years, hardened with his time training and fighting.
“Got himself in training to join the Army’s blades, bodyguard to the kingdom’s generals and royalty even,” Esal teased.
It might all be for show, to spread the truth and to be in key places to alter the direction of the Aeld Kingdom, they’d accomplished great things.
“That’ll help out a good amount, those army contracts for raw materials have buffed the coffers for sure. I’ve got several candidates with me, some old veterans that would be good to join the ranks of the army or Yasseen’s,” Rasheed said.
“Many hands make light work,” Esal said.
“And what a work it is.” Rasheed murmured, his eyes lost in a thought as he drank from his mug.
She drank from hers as well, the darkness of Yasseen’s ways was not just limited to the borders and rural areas.
Nobles, champions and priests, given over to their darker natures.
How long had it been since she was squeamish about a pig being slaughtered and had to look away? Pigs were innocent. Those creatures carried out their vileness without repent.
Worse, Yasseen and others knew of their debased acts and did nothing to act.
She reached up to grab her necklace, an old medal that had been set within a simple wooden pendant.
It vibrated in her hand, the other two looking at her in alarm.
The wooden pendant covering the medal dropped from her hand and fell on the table with a hollow noise.
She snatched it up.
“There’s nothing inside it.” She looked around and checked the floor.
“You lose something?” Rasheed asked.
“She kept Petor’s medal in there,” Brynne said.
She locked eyes with him, the medallion was gone.
“We could never get into it.”
“We saw him burn in the church,” Brynne said, but he didn’t sound so sure.
"Petor lives," she murmured, her voice a mixture of incredulity, confusion and hope. Rasheed and Brynne looked at one another and then her.
“Its been four years,” Rasheed said.
“And who else could summon his soul bound medal?”
“Well shit,” Brynne took a deep drink of his mug, a laugh pulling on his voice and a gleam in his eye.
