Way of the Wicked Chapter Twenty Four
As it turned out, making use of the teleport era concealed around the Horn was relatively simple. One simply had to sit in one of the thrones and clearly intone a particular word, which was carefully chosen to have no actual meaning and thus never come up in casual conversation, and the inbuilt magic of the Horn would transport you to the intended destination. The potential applications of such a system were fascinating, especially if she could figure out a way to apply them to other strategically important locations throughout the country, but right now Mira had much larger things on her mind. Fortunately the transition was relatively smooth, without any of the flashy side effects that some teleportation magic seemed required to include. She simply closed her eyes, spoke the word and then opened them again to look upon an entirely different location.
There had been a moment of doubt when she contemplated using this method to ascend to the upper levels of the temple, for she was all too aware that relying on a daemon to give you a perfectly accurate and honest assessment of something could very easily turn out to be a critical mistake, but in this case it seemed her fears of betrayal were unwarranted. The device deposited her in a kneeling position in the middle of a large hemispherical room, surrounded by a ring of small abyssal runes carved into the stone flagstones underfoot with a carefully precise hand. After a moment passed in which she was not suddenly ambushed by some hideous monster or turned inside out by whatever devious trap the creators of the Horn might have installed, she concluded that it was probably safe enough to stand up and take a look around.
There were two exits from the room, large wooden doors set into recessed alcoves and bereft of any kind of signs that might indicate what lay beyond, but they were not the primary feature of note when she considered her surroundings. No, that dubious honour went to the decorations, for just about every single inch of surface within the chamber had been carefully inscribed with long strings of words and letters in the varied languages of the lower planes. The script was cramped and tightly packed, each letter carefully etched in such a way as to take up the minimum amount of space while remaining distinct from its neighbours, as though the scribe had been concerned about the possibility of running out of room before they could fully transcribe whatever blasphemous message burned in their tormented mind.
Having only learned to speak Infernal as part of her studies and having little time or desire to dedicate to the study of those languages favored in the Abyss, Mira could only understand small portions of the text displayed all around her. Most seemed to be focused upon various esoteric and philosophical matters pertaining to the lower planes, though without the knowledge of the other languages she could tell that she was missing a great deal of context and clarifying detail. More than that, something about the particular way that the scripture was laid out seemed to hint at even more hidden meanings just below the surface, occult secrets revealed in the spatial relationships between disparate sections of text and strange symbols formed of blasphemous prayers viewed from the proper direction. It was fascinating in its own way, but trying to study it for more than a few moments strained the eye, and Mira was fully aware that she did not have the time to waste on such an academic pursuit right now in any case.
Shaking her head, she picked one of the doors and random and strode across to open it, relieved to find that the death priests had apparently not seen the need to lock the interior doors in their place of power. Or perhaps they had, and the additional security had not survived the relentless fury of the Victor's crusaders. That certainly seemed to be a possibility, as the chamber beyond the door had evidently been the site of a fierce battle between the defenders of the temple and the faithful warrior-priests that had stormed the place at their king's command. Precisely what type of magic had been unleashed here and by who was impossible to determine, but it had been potent enough to gouge long trenches in the stone walls and tiled floor of the room, turning even the harsh mountain rock beneath to a semi-liquid form that had then proceeded to set into something that looked oddly like tinted glass. Mira was put oddly in mind of the devastation left behind by a severe storm, where lightning struck the earth and left burning scars across mud and stone alike, but this had certainly been both more potent and focused than any natural event she had ever heard of.
Shaking her head, Mira turned around and headed for the other door, making a note to remember this place in the future. It was always good to be reminded that, no matter what she might personally think about the Church of Mitra and the House of Darius, both possessed the capability to wield immense power against those who thought to challenge them. She could despise them and oppose them, but she must never come to underestimate them, for that would inevitably see her cast down just as the Sons of the Pale Horseman had been, all of her dreams and ambitions burned to ashes upon the inquisitor's pyre.
The second door proved to connect the room with the scripture to a major passageway that likely served as the main nexus of the upper levels. She could see four other doors leading off along the sides of the corridor, presumably leading to other chambers of similar importance, while each end of the passageway opened up into a much larger space. To the south she could see a small balcony that provided a marvelous vantage point over the Caer Byr, the open design offering no real design in a climate as perpetually warm as this one, while to the north the passage opened up into a high vaulted chamber that seemed to be the hallmark of the primary places of worship inside this strange and labyrinthine temple.
Determined to find this ghost of the old high priest before it found her, and concluding that it might well choose to linger in the area most strongly associated with its living faith, she turned and strode to the north, setting one hand upon the hilt of her sword. Most ghosts could not be harmed by steel, but an enchanted weapon would inflict at least some degree of damage, and that was better than nothing right now. Not that she particularly intended to start a fight with the spirit if it could be avoided, but she was cynical enough to realize that her desires might not enter into things if the ghost was as far gone as she feared it could be, and if that was the case it was better to be prepared. Certainly the idea of lingering in this place for eighty years or more, trapped between life and death and tormented by the knowledge that you had failed your god seemed likely to cause insanity in those unfortunate enough to experience it, and she was reasonably certain that one had to be mad to serve as the high priest of an apocalypse cult in the first place.
As with just about every viable surface in this place, the walls of the hallway had been carved into a series of technically impressive but deeply disturbing murals. These ones seemed to be telling a story of some kind, starting near the entrance from the balcony and progressing along the length of the corridor to reach the present day just before the entrance to the temple. It seemed to be a historical record, telling the story of a singularly important member of the faith (or perhaps even Vetra-Kali itself) through a combination of disturbingly graphic images and long spiraling lines of Abyssal text, but Mira had neither the time or the desire to study them at length to piece together the whole tale. Some of the sections had apparently been destroyed by the crusaders in any case - considering the content of the areas they had left alone, she could only assume the cleansed sections were vile in a way no sane mind could conceive.
Vaguely she wondered about the wisdom of defacing the murals in such a manner. She highly doubted that any of the crusaders had made records of them before picking up the hammer, so each defaced mural represented a piece of knowledge forever lost to Talingarde. Certainly the Church of Mitra was well known for deliberately destroying records of faiths and traditions that it disagreed with, condemning them to extinction through obscurity, a habit that had done much to perpetuate the divide between them and the more secular academic community. Mira had always thought less of them for that, but in retrospect she wasn't entirely sure if her objection was based on individual principles or whether it was an extension of her dislike for everything associated with the House of Darius. If nothing else, it would probably make reintroducing the worship of Asmodeus easier in many ways, for there were very few now alive who remembered what life was like when the Lord of Hell was an accepted deity, and thus few who had any personal experiences to bias them against reintroducing his faith once more.
Of course, before she could even really begin to lay plans for resurrecting the faith of her Infernal Lord she had to overthrown the existing power structure that would prohibit such a thing, and that was the work of years at the minimum. Better to save such speculation for the future, then, and concentrate on what lay before her right now.
Off all the centers of worship she had encountered in this grand fortress-temple, this was the first that truly resembled a church as she understood it. Long lines of pews were arranged across the centre of the hall, allowing a worshipful congregation to sit and listen to the words of those higher than them in the faith as they focused their attention on the four statues set up against the far wall. Mira was not used to seeing such explicit icons of worship, for the Church of Mitra tended to represent their God through analogy and symbolism rather than anything quite so crude as a direct depiction, but that was apparently one more area in which the practices of the Sons differed from the mainstream. She wasn't a worshipper of the Horsemen, and indeed she knew comparatively little about them and their faith, but it was still abundantly clear what the statues were meant to represent.
The first shrine was a block of white stone, covered in depictions of shroud-wrapped corpses being placed into mass graves while emaciated humanoids sobbed in grief nearby - Apollyon, Horseman of Pestilence. Next to it stood a large slab of blood red marble, which might have been naturally that hue or simply stained by vast quantities of gore, covered in cruel iron weapons and scenes of ruinous slaughter - Szuriel, Horseman of War. To the right was a massive black altar engraved with skeletal figures stripped of all but the barest rudiments of flesh by some terrible hunger - Trelmarixian, Horseman of Famine. And finally, distinguished as much by the utter lack of any supporting illustration as by the large skull-like icon with coins for eyes, stood the shrine of Charon, Horseman of Death.
The shrines were imposing and ominous in their own right, certainly objects of reverence and fear to those who gathered here to give praise to their foul deities, but surprisingly they were not the primary focus of the room. No, that honour went to the large carving on the wall behind the shrines, set in the midst of numerous scenes of debauchery and inhuman cruelty that spanned the entire width of the wall and indeed most of the rest of the chamber as well. It was positioned in a central position directly in the middle of the four statues, and while the figure illustrated there was depicted in such a way as to be obviously giving homage to the representations of the Horsemen, it was abundantly clear that it was the focus of worship for the cultists that inhabited this place; the Daemon Lord Vetra-Kali Eats-the-Eyes.
Curiously, now that she thought about it Mira was pretty sure that this was the first time she had laid eyes upon a depiction of the cult's leader, for the lower levels had never held anything more direct than illustrated analogies for the masses who inhabited them. Was that because the cult hierarchy secured its power and authority by keeping the exact truths of what their faith entailed as a mystery to be doled out only to the most worthy, or was it simply because most humans would balk at serving such a hideous monstrosity, no matter how warped they had become by the constant indoctrination built in their daily lives? Either might be the case, for while she had heard of many cults which practiced the former, there was no denying that the actual image of the daemon lord was one to inspire fear and disgust far more easily than religious devotion.
It was hard to tell the daemon's precise size from the carving, which lacked any easily comparable scale and might well base relative size on symbolic importance more than actual physical form, but it seemed likely that it was at least as tall as any human, and likely quite a bit taller. The build, though, was frail to the point of being emaciated, the skin robbed of colour and texture by the medium of illustration but still obviously marked by pustules and plague-scars. Whoever the artist was, they had done a masterful job there, for despite what should have been a frail and slender being the image of Vetra-Kali still managed to radiate physical and spiritual might, an aura complemented by the lack of obvious muscles rather than betrayed by it. Six arms radiated from the central torso, spread in a gesture of genuflection that encompassed the icons of the Four Horsemen without actually going so far as to suggest any sense of inferiority; fealty without submission. It was the head that really drew the eye, however, that strange horse-like skull punctured by a single curling horn and set with three menacing eyes, for even rendered in such a form the mere image of the daemon lord seemed to conjure an air of power and authority that hung around it like a shroud.
All of that, however, swiftly took on a decidedly lesser importance as Mira finally located what she'd been searching for. Kneeling before the image, head bowed in a display that was as much abject submission as adoring worship, was a man dressed in long flowing robes that pooled around him on the cold stone floor. For a moment Mira was given to doubt, the sight before her almost enough to convince her of some mistake in the information received from the daemon still waiting on the level below, to entertain the idea that one of the old death priests might have survived the annihilation of his cult and persisted here across the decades that followed, sustained by some unholy magic bestowed upon him by his foul patron. It was only when the priest rose slowly to his feet and turned to look at her that the truth became clear.
Ezra Twice-Damned, as the daemon had called him, had apparently passed below that threshold for a third time. In life he must have been a terror to behold, a large and muscular man swathed in ornate robes that did little to hide his powerful build but augmented it with the trappings of spiritual power, the kind of man that tolerated nothing less than absolute and unquestioning obedience from all around him. Now though those robes hung slack, their size and shape still appropriate for the broad torso he must have boasted but the gentle rhythm of their movements entirely disconnected from any contact with unyielding flesh beneath, as though draped across a mannequin of slender wires and allowed to hang loosely. The eyes that once blazed with power and authority now shone in an altogether more literal fashion, two small pin-pricks of burning emerald light set amidst the amorphous mass of shadows that lay beneath the tattered cowl. In this place, surrounded by the reminders of his life and unwavering devotion to his god, the grip the ghost could muster upon this thrice-cursed form of existence was strong indeed, but even if he stood solid and opaque there was no chance of mistaking him for one of the living any more.
"Ah... another comes. Another servant of the Knot of Thorns, here to claim my temple for their own." The voice was thin and wavering, like the gentle hiss of wind through an open door, and though it emanated from the general vicinity of the hooded figure Mira could see no sign of moving lips within that shadowed mass. That was to be expected, though; the particulars of incorporeal undead could change dramatically depending on the circumstances of their passing and oft-unwilling resurrection, but one of the common factors to all of them was the way that their forms matched their own self image. Ezra might have remained fixated upon his trappings of power, upon the size that he instinctively paired with his own physical strength, but he was distinctly less likely to have given much thought to retaining the exact details of his facial features or indeed a face at all.
"It's not your temple." She said bluntly, unwilling to allow the ghost to control the flow of this conversation. "You lost any claim to it when you allowed the victor to banish Vetra-Kali. Fortunately for you, I am here to undo that particular accomplishment."
"Servant of Asmodeus." The ghost hissed, a hint of anger and genuine malice coloring its tone, though whether that antipathy was directed at her in particular or at all servants of her god she could not tell. "You have no power here. This place is beyond the reach of that pathetic would-be tyrant you serve, consecrated to the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and their most favoured agent. I should slay you for your impertinence."
The temperature in the Fane dropped several degrees, the chill harsh against her skin, but Mira refused to be intimidated. This wretched old shade thought to threaten her, dared to dictate terms and assume that it held the upper hand even while as blasphemies spilled from its frail lips? No, this she would not permit, for practical and ideological reasons both.
"You lack the power, fool." She said coldly, putting every shred of arrogant confidence she could muster into that single pronouncement. "Perhaps once you commanded the favour of your gods, but where is that power now? You had your chance when the Mitrans stormed this place, and you failed. They killed you, banished Vetra-Kali, annihilated your legacy in cleansing flames and laid down holy seals that even now persist in keeping your lord bound away from this plane. You failed, completely and utterly, and I have little to fear from a failure."
This was a dangerous tactic, she knew, for there was no way to be certain of precisely how powerful the ghost was before she saw it demonstrate that strength, and goading an enemy of indeterminate might was always a risky proposition. The better tactic, the logical and soundly reasoned choice of action here would be to take a more diplomatic tact, to play on the wraith's desires and negotiate aid and information in exchange for a promise to return Vetra-Kali to the world. She knew she could do it, even now, knew how easy it would be to switch from the fiery condemnation she had already used to a persuasive offer of allegiance, to build upon the foundations she had already laid down and secure the spirit's aid with carefully chosen words.
Except... she had already made her decision. Alliances were for equals, those beings that possessed both a useful degree of power and a goal complimentary to her own, individuals with whom she could establish a relationship of mutual benefit and support. The Sons of the Pale Horsemen were not allies; no servant of daemons was or ever would be. They were scum that deserved no consideration or mercy, and she would not lower herself to bargaining with such things as though they had any right to stand before her as equals. They would serve at her feet or perish upon her blade - there were no other options.
"You are a fool, devil-whore, you and your master both." The ghost hissed, malevolent hatred blazing in its eyes. "You think I do not know what you intend, what limited power is at your command? The souls of your comrades are mine already, and yours will join them if you do not learn some respect."
Summoned by the words, three more pale forms seemed to melt into existence near the back of the shrine, drifting forwards in complete silence. They wore the echoes of more practical survival and traveling gear as opposed to Ezra's heavy robes, but there was no doubting that their nature was all but identical to his, and everything about their bearing and movement suggested a distinctly subservient role to the undead priest that stood before them. Mira had known that certain varieties of the undead were able to create spawn, lesser copies of their own cursed selves held under unwavering domination and bound to serve their creator, but she had always associated that with more physical specimens such as vampires. The idea that a ghost could do likewise was surprising, but she had already known that Ezra was a dangerous and formidable creature.
More importantly, in that moment, was precisely who the shade had decided to turn to its own service. Mira might not recognize any of them by face, or even by name should any of them still possess the mental capacity to recall such a thing, but there was no mistaking the unholy symbols which hung on chains draped around their neck or the crown of metal thorns that each wore upon their brow. It seemed that she had discovered the fate of the Fourth Knot.
"You insult me." She said quietly. "You insult my god. You slay my comrades and parade their desecrated bodies before my eyes, and you dare... you dare to demand my respect? No. No, this ends now."
Barely had she spoken the words than the power swelled up within her, the infernal might she normally had to forcibly summon leaping to obey her with eager enthusiasm. Whereas before it had always been a small stream, a gift from her master that had to be carefully controlled and doled out in measured quantities to achieve her goals, now it surged through her body and soul alike with all the power and fury of a raging torrent. Her blood sang with primal might and for one brief, perilous moment she feared she might lose her mind beneath the crushing waves of ecstatic pleasure that rolled throughout her body and soul. The air around her, grown chill over years spent in uninhabited ruins and held far away from the warming touch of the sun now shimmered and howled with the infernal heat that radiated out from her proud and imperious form.
Her heart thundered in her chest, and for a moment she was confused. Where was this power coming from? She had asked Lord Thorn for schooling in the art of spell casting, but such was little more than an expression of intent at this stage, for she had read no tomes and received no lessons in the small snippets of time afforded to her thus far. Without such education to expand and develop her skills, how was it that she could call upon the power inside and be answered with so much greater strength than before? Barely had she thought to question it before the answer came to mind, a knowledge born of such surety that it could only have come from the same source as all of her divine gifts.
Lessons and lectures were for students of the arcane, those who thought to command the power of magic and shackle it to their will with the tools of reason and intellect, who neither needed nor desired godly blessings or divine assistance to change the world as they saw fit. Such was a fine and worthy path, a method that rewarded those who possessed both natural talent and the will to develop it with power appropriate to their commitment, but it was not the path that she had chosen to walk. The path of one who served the divine did not require occult secrets or arcane writings to control and direct the power bestowed upon them. It required faith and will, the devotion to a being immeasurably greater than oneself, the desire to support that being's cause and beliefs coupled with the strength and conviction to change the world accordingly.
She was a servant of Asmodeus, a divinely sanctioned warrior that paired her own skills and training with the supernatural might that the First Tyrant deigned to bestow upon her and used them to further the cause of Hell upon this plane. It seemed obvious, then, that her power would swell when she acted in a manner that her lord approved of and diminished if she disregarded his wishes in favour of her own. So here, in this place, when she stood proud in the sanctum of a rival power and declared the superiority of her lord and her faith, when she moved to avenge the insults levied against her by a worm with delusions of grandeur, when she claimed superiority and sought domination through little more than strength of will and faith... when she acted as Asmodeus would have her act, of course the power responded to her will in a way that it never had before. She was the chosen agent of the most powerful being in all of the cosmos, and it was about time that she acted like it.
Ezra, perhaps recognizing her intent or simply determined that whatever she was about to do was against his interests, rushed forwards with shadowy hands raised. It was tempting to think that a strike from an immaterial fist would be harmless without any mass behind it, but the ghost had somehow managed to overpower and consume the Fourth Knot before her, and she knew that Thorn would not have recruited weaklings or fools to his cause. It was unlikely that physical armour would pose much of a barrier, even if it was enchanted as hers was, so she had to find a way to overcome her foe without relying on it as she might against another opponent. More than that, she had to do so before the weaker spawn behind him managed to weigh in and bring the full weight of numbers to bear against her, which she judged likely to take no more than a handful of seconds. Doubtless Ezra expected her to go for her blade, to pit martial skill and enchanted steel against ghostly form and ancient hate, but she had no intention of acting according to the desires or expectations of anyone else.
"Kneel."
The command tore its way free of her throat with an almost physical force, echoing throughout the empty chambers of the fortress like the tolling of some great temple bell. The aura of unholy energy surrounding her flared in response, until it seemed as though she stood in the centre of a great crimson bonfire, and a heartbeat later everything in the chamber began to buckle as some great weight had fallen upon it from on high. Showers of dust fell from the ceiling and the long wooden pews began to creak and groan under the strain, but it was the effect on the advancing ghosts that was the most profound.
Having clawed his way back from beyond the veil of death and into a new incorporeal existence, it had been decades since Ezra had concerned himself with or even experienced the sensation of gravity, but as the command took hold it was a sensation that he was rapidly reacquainted with. With his outstretched hands just inches from sinking into Mira's flesh the ghostly cleric was abruptly slammed into the ground with enough force to crack the flagstones, his immaterial form no protection from the divine weight pressing down on his body like the hand of an angry god. He tried to move, straining against the weight with all of his power and spiteful will, but his resurrection was little more than a holy mockery of his former life, bringing with it only the merest fraction of his original power, and he could do little more than raise his head to glare up at his tormenter.
"You... dare..." He ground out, fighting for the power to resist, calling upon the gods that had long forsaken him in a desperate attempt to rise and strike back, but Mira had no intentions of permitting anything of the sort.
"Silence." She said coldly, voice still ringing with that otherworldly force, and the ghost's jaw clamped shut. "Ezra Thrice-Damned. I am Mirabelle Barca, chosen servant of Asmodeus, and his name I claim this place for my own."
The priest tried to rise at that, eyes burning with fury, but she simply concentrated and smashed him back down, forcing him to lay prostrate at her feet. "You are mine. Your servants are mine. Your knowledge, your resources and any other aid you can provide are mine. You will obey my orders, protect my allies and destroy my foes, in that order."
Existence as a ghost had many advantages, if one cared to look at it in such terms. Having forcibly raised himself in that form Ezra no longer had to concern himself with any number of mundane concerns, and being immaterial was even protected from a significant number of threats that might imperil more traditional kinds of undead. But for all of those advantages, a ghost lacked any kind of physical body. It became little more than an unbound soul, held together with force of will and unholy magic, and as such was vulnerable to the attentions of those who held such qualities themselves. Mira had imposed her will onto others many times before, but as she stared into her enemy's lifeless eyes and forced every last drop of power flowing through her veins into her demands, she could feel his will breaking beneath her attention in a way that was altogether much more literal than usual.
"This is not a negotiation. You have no say in this, no choice to make. This is my command, and you will obey. Is that understood?"
For a long moment the fallen priest struggled to hold out, calling up every drop of devotion and spite in his withered mockery of a soul to resist... but such was never going to be enough to resist one such as her, and he knew it. It was that inevitability more than anything else that finally broke him, the knowledge that he would fail here just as he had failed before. The fires in his eyes dimmed, his robes slumped as though the structure holding them up had suddenly collapsed, and Ezra Thrice-Damned bowed his head in acknowledgement of his new owner.
"Yes... my master."