B3C5 - Rumblings (Patreon)

Magister Poranus wasn’t happy.

“Hurry up,” he snapped to his manservant and the man immediately began to bow and scrape.

“I’m sorry, Magister. Please forgive this humble servant.”

“Don’t stop working, you blithering idiot!”

“Apologies, Magister!”

The young man immediately straightened and got back to adjusting Poranus’ robes. He hated the formal robes. Multi-layered, tassled, with gold chains running down the sleeves, they were cumbersome to the point of absurdity.

Nervous of being scolded, or worse, disciplined, the servant’s hands were now shaking, causing him to tangle two of the chains together.

“You -” Poranus blew out a breath. “Go away,” he said coldly. “You’re worse than useless. The next time your work is this poor, I’ll have you flogged.”

“I-I… thank you… M-Magister,” the servant stuttered as he backed away.

Poranus snorted and began fussing with the fine chains himself, finally untangling them after several curse-filled minutes.

Irritated and red-faced, the Magister took a moment to compose himself before he pulled open the door and exited his chambers, only to have his mood immediately sour again.

“Hello there, brother,” Herath greeted him, smiling broadly. “Sent your manservant packing again, I see.”

Poranus eyed the blond Magister through narrow slits, not bothering to hide his dislike.

“Herath…. Why are you loitering outside my chambers?”

“Why, brother! What a thing to say. I merely thought to enjoy your company as we make our way to the Council together.”

“Well… that’s… grand….”

The two fell into stride beside each other, one sunny, the other thundering.

“The support of the Jorlins counts for a lot,” Poranus remarked sourly. “I’m surprised you’re still on the Council after your last scandal.”

“My family dotes on me, it’s true,” Herath said modestly, “they have been kind enough to forgive my momentary lapses in judgement.”

Poranus snorted. Misappropriation of funds, outright corruption. Of course it was all swept under the rug, since the ones to lose out were slayers and commoners. Herath wasn’t stupid enough to steal from the Nobles, he’d have vanished the next day and lived in agony for the rest of his days.

“Are you starting to sympathise with the cattle?” Herath asked with a raised brow. “We are the jailers. It isn’t good to have tender feelings toward the jailed.”

From one of the larger noble families, these were the kinds of abuses Herath could get away with.

“You’re accusing me of being soft on the slayers?” Poranus said incredulously. “Because I can’t steal from them and avoid repercussions?”

“Of course not. Just a word of friendly advice from your fellow Council member. We are tasked with keeping the peace. We need to work together to hold back the tide.”

“Of course.”

Herath continued to try and engage his contemporary in conversation as they walked, nattering on as Poranus grunted back at him. Together, they walked into the Council chamber to find Grand Magister Tommat already in place at the head of the table.

“Take a seat,” the old man rumbled, knuckling his thick, grey moustache.

Don’t look at his head. Don’t look at his head.

Poranus averted his eyes from the gleaming reflection of the firelight from Tommat’s shiny, bald head. The flickering light had caught his attention at the last meeting and he was paranoid the Grand Magister had noticed.

Soon, the other members filed in and the Council began.

As it progressed, Poranus became increasingly unable to comprehend what he was hearing. Bickering over who was sent to the Keeps, politicking to secure more plum roles for this or that family, crackdowns on Slayers within the city. Generic, blase issues that they dealt with every week. After the first hour, he couldn’t stand it anymore and interjected, cutting Magister Anlyn mid sentence.

“I beg the Council’s pardon,” he began, incredulous, “but are we not going to address what we’ve heard from Reynold Keep?”

Grand Magister Tommat knuckled his moustache and stared at him disapprovingly.

“Where is your decorum, brother?” he rumbled. “You have no call to disrupt the important business of the Council with these baseless rumours.”

Herath tugged at his sleeve surreptitiously, but Poranus brushed him off.

“Anlyn wants to make sure none of the Chirn are sent to supervise the slayers at the new rift in Cragwhistle, and we all know the Council will agree since they’ve been generous with donations lately.”

He glared across the table at Anlyn who just smiled and shrugged.

“Meanwhile, we’ve had reports of Slayer unrest on the rise for the past four years. Brand activations are at an eighty year high. Eighty years! I only know that because I went into the record books to check! Ever since the Steelarms died, there’s been a steady increase in acts of defiance and it has yet to be mentioned here in Council, once.”

Tommat slammed his fist down on the trouble as he glared at the younger Magister.

“Do you really think you can sit here and tell this body how to conduct its business? Is it you who chairs this discussion, Magister Poranus? Or do I?”

“You, of course,” Poranus said, with no remorse on his face. “I simply submit to the Council that this is an issue worth discussing.”

A ripple of scoffs and dismissive gestures ran around the table.

“The history of the Brand as a method for controlling dangerous individuals in the Empire goes back thousands of years,” Tommat stated. “How are your concerns relevant to that sort of timeframe? The Slayers are riled up after two of their most beloved and successful members were forced to sacrifice themselves in such an unfortunate manner. In a few years, they’ll have settled back down again. It isn’t the first or the last time this happened.”

Poranus couldn’t believe his ears.

“Grand Magister Tommat, this latest incident occurred at Reynold Keep, just south of Kenmor itself! If things are getting that bad so close to the capital, what are they like at Skyice? Or Dustwatch? Or Blackrift?”

Magister Anwyn raised his hand and Tommat nodded his permission to speak.

“Perhaps we may be able to strike two birds with one stone. Magister Poranus wishes for us to ascertain the extent of Slayer… disruption far from the Capital, and we are in need of a Magister to be posted in Cragwhistle.”

You piece of shit, Poranus raged.

Grand Magister Tommat nodded thoughtfully.

“This suggestion makes sense. What say you, Magister Poranus? Anything to contribute before I put it to a vote?”

Poranus pushed back his chair as he stood.

“Don’t bother to vote, I’ll pack immediately.”

He glared across the table at Anwyn.

“As usual, the actual work of the Magisters will fall to those from the minor families.”

Beside him, Herath sighed and shook his head. Once again, his colleague would suffer for his poor temper.

Without another word, Poranus turned and stormed out of the chamber, slamming the door behind him.

That stupid servant better pack his bags. By the gods, I refuse to suffer the freezing cold in the arse end of the Empire while he slobs about in the city.

~~~

Thunder boomed down the side of the Barrier Mountains as dark grey clouds rolled over the cliffs and poured down over the foothills. Cold and sharp, the wind cut like a blade as it whistled through the jagged rocks that thrust upward through the waving grass.

Elsbeth drew her cloak tight around her shoulders as she glanced worriedly back toward the weary folk who trudged along in her wake.

“Not far now,” she urged them with a wan smile and the closest, Dram, nodded.

“Thank ye, lass,” he muttered, “we’ll be fine.”

“Can you follow this path without me leading, Dram? I want to check on the others.”

“O’ course,” he said, a little fire sparking in his eyes. “I didn’t come all this way ta fall on me arse now.”

She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder before she turned and began to walk back down the line. They were a sorry-looking lot, suffering after several long weeks of travel.

She came upon a mother travelling with her two children, all three looking haggard and worn. As the priestess walked past, the mother reached out to grasp her sleeve.

“Please priestess, give us a blessing.”

Elsbeth stopped.

“Are you sure? The children also?”

The woman’s mouth set in a hard line.

“Yes, if it pleases you.”

Over the years, Elsbeth had learned not to doubt the courage of these folk, even if she questioned their wisdom. It would do no good to argue, and this was what she was here for, was it not?

Reaching out to the Old Gods wasn’t like casting a spell, she knew that now. Magick was involved… somehow, but what she did still held an element of the time before, when there were no rifts, or kin. She reached deeply inward and found that which connected her to something far greater than she was.

“The blessing of the Old Gods be upon you. They see you, may you not be found wanting.”

Immediately, the woman stumbled, as if a great weight had settled on her shoulders, similarly the children buckled. Two boys, the oldest no more than twelve, forced themselves back up, their faces determined, though she could easily read the pain in their expression.

A blessing from the Three…. Many wouldn’t even call it a blessing, more like a curse. Attracting the attention of Crone, Raven and Rot meant they would test you, push you. The Old Gods were hard and cold, they helped those who helped themselves. Should this mother and her children push through the oppression that had been placed on them, there was a chance they could gain favour from one or more of the Three.

They are strong. Watch as they struggle through, she prayed silently in her heart.

Part of her still yearned to help them, to relieve their burdens, but she had come to terms with her Gods and what they wanted. If she interfered, if she helped them in any way, then the blessing became meaningless. Worse than meaningless, since her help would offend the Three and tempt them to bring calamity on the family, and on herself.

Many invited the eyes of the Old Gods, and they could never be sure what might happen. There were no rules that they followed, no consistent or safe way to approach them. They may lay a light burden on someone who took their blessing, or they might shatter their heart on the spot.

Further down the line, a man struggled to keep up, leaning heavily on another next to him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, as she rushed forward.

Clearly injured, the man grimaced.

“Not sure I’ll be able to make it, at this rate, Priestess. Would you intercede with the Rotten One for me?”

Another difficult request. Unlike the Goddess, whose houses of healing provided divine comfort to those who arrived as supplicants, Rot was not so giving.

“There will be a price for any aid given. Are you still willing?”

Grim-faced, he nodded.

“I am,” he said. “Whatever Rot demands, I will pay.”

Again, she reached out through that connection which bound her and the Gods together. Except this time, she reached for one specifically, the Rotten one, and felt the deity assent.

“Rot infuses you with a portion of his strength. Do not waste it, for the price will be claimed at a later time.”

Almost immediately, the man sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth as vitality flooded him. His friend steadied him as he spasmed, the flesh of his leg mending in mere seconds. When it was done, he was dripping sweat and shaking, testing his leg with small, tentative steps.

“I thank you, priestess,” he nodded. “Now I will not be a burden.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and smiled.

Who knew what Rot would claim as his price? Perhaps the man would suffer a light fever, and recover after a few days. Or perhaps the leg would be taken with gangrene, and need to be removed entirely.

Thankfully, there were no others who asked for her care, responding to her soft-spoken inquiries with wan smiles or weary shakes of the head.

Several hours later, they arrived at their destination. Ortan greeted them at the gate.

“More?” he asked dourly, his face twisted into a frown. “I’m not sure we can take any more, Elsbeth.”

“That’s what you said last time, and the time before that, and yet still you survive. Even thrive. It’s curious, isn’t it?”

Elsbeth put down her pack with a sigh and rubbed her shoulders. Her feet ached something fierce and she desperately needed a bath after two weeks of hard travel.

Ortan’s frown only deepened.

“Are you talking about your gods?” he grunted. “I’ve not seen any evidence they’re helping us, just flooding us with mouths that we can’t afford to feed.”

“Are you sure they aren’t your gods yet?” she asked, half teasing. “Most of the people out here worship the Three, not the Five. It’s not like you can doubt their existence, you’ve seen my work.”

“How can I forget?”

He sighed heavily.

“Why are they sending all these people here, Elsbeth? I’m more than willing to help people in need, but this is getting out of hand.”

A question he had asked several times before. She didn’t have any new answers for him.

“I don’t know for sure. They believe this place will be safe, protected by the Necromancer. Some of the other Priests and Priestesses I’ve met think they’re gathering followers for the first time in thousands of years, bringing their people together.”

At her mention of the Necromancer, Ortan’s expression darkened.

“Nobody believes he’s even alive anymore.”

“Do I take that to mean you’ve finally stopped dropping hints?”

“He is alive.”

“I believe so,” Elsbeth said simply, and forcibly changed the subject. “Now come on. Help me get these people something to eat and a place to rest. Unless you intend to leave them outside the gate?”

The big man sighed.

“No. Bring them in. I think I have a spot I can put them up.”