He did not expect it to happen so soon. He expected, as with most things bureaucratic or ceremonial, that it would take days, if not longer for them to arrange it. He had expected to have a little time to prepare himself emotionally for the trauma of pretending to be humbled. It was not a thing familiar to him. He could not quite ever recall a time when he had ever bowed down to any man, god or demon. It was not in his nature to be that flexible. Men bowed to him. They begged him for forgiveness. He was frankly amazing that he had let Yoko talk him into it, but she had powers of persuasion over him that no one else did. That part of his soul that had been harbored in the boy Rushie those fifteen years could not deny her. And the rest of him followed suit.
So he found himself agreeing to act the penitent and bow to men that he truly held a distaste for. He found himself not quite in the right frame of mind for meek behavior when the door to his cell slammed open and guards filed in. He expected to see Yoko in their midst, bringing his supper, but the only one who stepped forward was the guard caption with the odd green eyes.
"On your feet." Was the rude request. The man stood over him with the obvious and quite deluded assumption that his size and his impressive armament were intimidating. Schneider looked up at him lazily, his arms folded across his bent knees. "Why? Shall we dance?"
The thin lips tightened. The men behind him waited, ready to lay hands on him should their captain so will it.
"You are summoned by the Prophet and the King."
"The Prophet and the King? Well, I should be impressed, shouldn't I? Hummm, maybe it will come to me later."
"Get up." The captain made a grab for him.
Schneider bared his teeth and hissed. "You've laid hands on me once. How many times do you want to die, monkey-man?"
He pushed to his feet on his own, one graceful movement that had him staring the guard captain -- was his name Sinakha? He had to remember that for future missions of vengeance -- in the eyes. The man stood just an inch or so taller than he did, but he still managed to stare down his nose at him.
"So what now?"
Sinakha's lips twitched, as if some hint of a smile were trying to burst past the perpetual frown. It was just enough of a warning saying that this was not a man who brooked insolence or disobedience. That this was a man who took great gratification in instilling discipline when the chance occurred to him.
He was also damned quick for a big, brawny man. Gara would have been hard pressed to match that speed. Schneider who had always been more inclined to rely on his vast magical prowess, although he was an excellent swordsman, just saw the fist coming, and could not quite connect the awareness and the reflex of stepping out of the way fast enough. Sinakha struck him on the side of the temple. A glancing blow that did little more than spin his head about and momentarily cause bright lights to dance behind his eyes. Sinakha did not give him time to recover. Sinakha was good at what he did. A hand caught Schneider's shoulder, spun him around and slammed him against the wall. While he was gathering breath to curse, the man clamped a manacle about one wrist, captured the other and fastened his hands behind his back. A very talented man. An expert at dealing with unwilling people.
Schneider did not even bother to reiterate on the promise of a long and painful death. He glared from under his lashes, concentrating on calming his furious breath. Sinakha caught him under the arm and started him walking. Past the eyes of the guards, some of whom looked properly wary, others who smirked at the manhandling. Through the door and into a dark hallway that he had no memory of transgressing the first time. Up a narrow stair, where he stubbed his toe, a reminder that he had no shoes, which was a damned embarrassing way to meet his enemies. Shoeless and in the plain, homespun garb Yoko had brought him; dirty, with his hair a tangled, pale mess down his shoulders and back. Street venders dressed better. It was an affrontage to him, who had a taste for fashion.
Up a second level, a place for storage by the looks of it, and out a door into a hall where windows looked down from above. Nighttime shown through the panes. Torches guttered along the walls. He heard the muffled murmuring of a crowd through stone walls. More guards joined them, and Sinakha thrust him into the keeping of others while he went to confer with the newcomers. The guard captain's frown deepened. He motioned for several of his men to go ahead, then came back and took charge of Schneider again.
"Problem?" Schneider asked maliciously, hoping something terrible plagued the temple.
"You." Was the curt answer. Sinakha began walking again. A brisk stride that had them at the doors at the end of the hall in short order. They were opened for them and beyond was the tall ceiling and cavern like space of the main shrine. The sound of voices suddenly amplified with the open doors. A sea of angry faces turned towards them. The guards pushed forward, moving the closest folk out of the way. Cries went up, spreading throughout the temple. Cries of Murderer and Demon Spawn and Dark Schneider.
Sinakha's fingers tightened on his arm, he yelled for his men to make a path for them, but people pressed against the guards, screaming for his death. Calling for the witchfires. Peasants, rabble, the poorest of the poor among the plain garbed folk that made up Meta-Rikan's middle class. They all clustered together in their common cause. His destruction. He was somewhat shocked by the fervor and the boldness of the crowd. He was feared and hated, he knew that, it could hardly be avoided after his years of conquest while he served the purposes of Ansasla, but the common folk had never dared to scream their hatred to his face. Had never ventured to attack him physically. What, by all the demons of hell that they accused him of serving, was the Prophet preaching to them?
A woman pressed against the living barrier of guards, red faced from crying, waving a black scarf at him furiously. "Murderer. You killed my husband."
He stared at her blankly, as Sinakha hauled him through the press, thinking that he very well could have. Out the great central doors of the temple and there was a crowd barely restrained from becoming a mob on the street. There were priests on the steps, calling for people to be calm. To let them pass and those priestly forms were the only thing that kept violence from erupting. It certainly was not the guards who barely held the line towards the heavy coach that sat at the bottom of the steps.
Into it and he was sandwiched between Sinakha and another guard, two more taking the opposite seat. The door slammed shut, cutting out the torch lit faces, but only barely managing to dim the shouts and accusations. It rocked into motion, slowly forcing its way through the crowd. The high pitched scream of a horse from outside and the progress faltered. The coach swayed, as the crowd pressed against it from all sides.
The Prophet and the king did not scare him. Hell had not particularly frightened him. The god of Destruction, Ansasla had not been a thing to quite inspire fear, but he found himself unnerved by this crowd of common folk, who against all their good sense, were attacking a wizard that, had he possessed his powers could have destroyed them all and their city along with them. But he didn't have the magic. And for the first time it occurred to him that being torn apart by a angry mob was not the heroic demise he might have hoped for on his third time down. And what -- terrible thought that it was -- if he did die and went to hell again and somehow those damned wards on his wrists went with him? Being at the mercy of the things that lurked in the depths of hell was not a pretty notion. He shut his eyes and wished for the coachman to get his equine charges under hand and get the coach out of this hate filled square.
With great difficulty it did, rattling over cobblestones and picking up speed once it had cleared the mob outside the temple. The guards breathed sighs of relief, but did not speak among themselves in Schneider's presence. His sense of direction was sorely skewered. He had nothing more than vague memories of his initial flight through the town, and no earthly notion of what building he had been imprisoned within. It was a great church, he had seen that on his harrowing trip through the shrine, but he was aware on no great church save the Cathedral within Meta-Rikan and yet it took no long coach trip to reach the palace, if that was indeed where he was headed. He had no intention of inquiring of his guards. But, soon enough the coach slowed and was hailed from without, and then passed over what sounded like a wooden bridge. One of the bridges that led to Meta-Rikan castle. The door was opened and Sinakha nudged him to get out.
The weathered facade of Meta-Rikan castle faced him. The courtyard was orderly and free of the mulling folk that had littered the temple steps. Only royal guards at their posts, who looked on the temple guards with the fine air of superiority of men upon who's territory other men tread. Dragon guard met with Basilica and captain's exchanged words. Sinakha would not give up custody of his prisoner, so the Dragon's joined with the temple security and together marched him into the palace proper.
They stared at him, the Dragons. He might have recognized a face or two had he not been dwelling so intently on the indignities he had been subjected to on the one hand and on the other seriously doubting his ability to act the humble supplicant. He could not for the life of him imagine what good it would do him. No matter how much faith Yoko had in the benevolency of her religion, he had little doubt that this was no more than some devious ploy on the part of the church. Or more likely this Prophet, whose very presence made him wary. What was it about the man --?
Down halls he vaguely recalled, past clustered servants and a stray courtier or two. The great doors of the throne room stood closed, but watched over by two guards in full dress regalia. They opened them on cue as the procession approached.
There were people in the great chamber beyond. A great many people lining the walls, peering around each other in efforts to see the entrance. Nobles and priests -- god, there were an over abundance of priests -- ladies in all their finery. Military men in their finest uniforms, sparkling with medals and honors. All turned out to see him. Wryly he thought he ought to feel flattered.
He lifted his head, shook his hair back from his face and paced down the carpeted aisle leading straight to the throne, before Sinakha could lay hands on him and force the issue. They whispered about him. In awe, in fear, in reminiscence, in speculation. Once again, Dark Schneider was the center of their dull little worlds. He reveled in the attention. A lazy smile touched his lips, a predatory gleam burned in his azure eyes. He ignored all the petty faces of the people lining the way to the dais. They were nothing. Except for Yoko, who stood not too far from the dais, before her father. She he noted from the corner of his eye. Saw in that haphazard glimpse, frightened eyes and pale skin.
But he hardly had the time to focus on her, not with Larz sitting on the high backed, stone throne and the Prophet standing one step down to his side. Larz he had a problem with. Larz, he would always have a problem with, the pretentious ass having managed to defeat him twenty years or more ago, with the very great aide of The Great Priest, Geo Note and his circle of clerics. Schneider had a tremendous problem with being bested, which came from not having it happen very often. The only consolation was the fact that Larz had not exactly survived the battle either, whiling away the years in the form of a dragon pup.
He stopped ten feet away from the dais, proper court etiquette. Sinakha stopped a few steps behind him, and the other guards melted to the sidelines. A thin, imperious smile touched his lips as he met his old enemies eyes. Larz wasn't smiling. Larz looked rather disgusted, but he sat his father's throne with his back straight and his face composed. Off to one side, his heir and sister, Sheela stood beside a mousy haired man, who wore the circlet of some petty kingdom about his brow. Leisurely, while they all waited for someone to break the tension, he let his eyes rake over her familiarly, just to annoy Larz and the man next to her, whoever he was. She blushed.
Larz finally lifted a hand for silence and the flutters of whispering ceased with an expectant intake of breath. Schneider lifted a brow.
"There are charges brought against you, Dark Schneider." Larz never had been one for beating around the bush, which considering how annoying the blooded nobility was, had always been a trait Schneider had found appealing in him. One of the few. "Charges of murder and collusion with the dark forces of hell. Fifteen men of Meta-Rikan lie dead from actions of yours. The Holy Prophet of the High God, Angelo, claims that you are an agent of Satan and should be treated as such. What say you?"
Oh, that was to the point and completely righteous and full of the justice Larz always had thought he ought to be the one and only to deliver. Schneider had to take a moment to force the bile of swallowed pride down his throat before he could speak. From the side of his vision he could see Yoko mouthing the words she wished him to speak.
"Fifteen?" he asked, his voice echoing in the complete silence of the hall. "I seem to recall one -- who attacked me in the storm. He deserved it. The other's I don't quite remember --- but, of course I regret any innocent life that was taken from action of mine." Which was a totally crock of absurdity, considering the multitudes of deaths he had been responsible for and remembered quite clearly, that the lot of them did not seem to be upset over.
"But," he added, before Larz could respond to that vaguely patronizing rendition of an apology. "Shouldn't any atonement be made to the poor widowed wives of the dead, instead to a hall full of nobles who could care less if a town full of peasants lived or died -- unless it meant profit to them?"
An agitated whisper swept the room. He heard Yoko moan nonononono, from the side. Larz drew his brows in displeasure and the Prophet -- if he was not mistaken, the Prophet almost smiled before he wiped the expression from his face and dutifully frowned
"This is not a court -- yet, to decide your innocence or guilt, or what price you might pay for the crime."
"Guilt? Isn't that a rather broad term, considering?" Schneider flared back, interrupting the King to the dismay of his court. He felt Sinakha's presence close in on his back, and stiffened, waiting for that man to lay hands on him, which here, under all these eyes would be intolerable.
"Of the guilt we have no doubt." The Prophet's smooth, orator's voice broke into the friction flaring between Larz and Schneider. His face was the picture of calm serenity. His smile took in all the court, drawing their trust like sand soaks water. God, there was something about the man.
"What is in doubt is your right to stand among us as a mortal, human man. If indeed you are a spawn of hell, then any lawful standards a true man might be entitled to -- are bereft you."
The court listened to the Prophet as if the man had them hypnotized. Behind him, Larz focused on his every word. The priests in the crowd looked positively orgasmic. The Prophet moved down the steps of the dais, his staff of office clicking on the stone. Schneider stared as rapt as the rest, only his fascination came from some inner rasp of recognition. The face and the body were unfamiliar, but there was something else -- something in the words he spoke, in the look in his eyes -- that itched and scratched at Schneider's memory. And no recent memory. No clear one at all. Something long, long ago that just needed the right hint to come back to him.
"We hope and we pray that it is not so." The Prophet lamented. "If you have a soul, then We will strive for its salvation. If you do not -- then you will be sent back to the hell you came from."
"And how would you know?" Schneider asked softly. The Prophet came closer. Sinakha laid hands on his shoulders, as if afraid he might go for the man, chained as he was. He might have, if he had not been so enticed by the fluttering hint of recognition.
"No spawn of hell could willingly pledge itself to the High God. A spawn of hell would burn if it kissed the holy ring of the God."
Another step closer. He extended his hand, upon which was a gold signet ring with the symbol of the High God carved into a blue stone.
"Kneel." Sinakha hissed in his ear, a moment before he deftly kicked at the back of his knees, collapsing his legs. He went down with a snarl, the guard captain's fingers hovering over his shoulders to keep him down should he start upwards. In his memory, Schneider had never knelt before another man in supplication. No matter Yoko's pleas that this was the only path to eventual freedom, he could not tolerate it. He clenched his fists so hard his nails bore into the flesh of his palms. His vision tunneled dangerously and he felt a tingle of pain from the wards about his wrists as the magic reflexively stirred to his very great desire.
The hand with the ring was before his face. The Prophet looked down upon him, his eyes glinting with an inner light that suggested -- excitement. Thrill at the adoration of the crowd, of the submission of a man who he knew very well was being forced into the act. And he used his god as leverage for all of it. He used his god for an excuse to lord over the faithful and crush the unfaithful. At the word of his god he might destroy the world. It was a familiar tune. Schneider had played it himself in the past, when Ansasla had held control over some part of him. Then it occurred to him that before the destruction of the old world, he had known a man like the Prophet. He had seen that look and that fervent wish to be god's prophet on earth on a man of religion. On a man that had welcomed Ansasla and the entities that had summoned it, because he wished to remake the world in the name of god.
"I know you." Schneider whispered.
"Declare your acceptance to the High God's will."
"I know you! You fucking sick bastard. I know you!"
Sinakha grabbed his shoulder, his hair when he tried to surge to his feet, yanked his head back and put a knee in his back. The court was murmuring in agitation. Yoko was crying for him to stop.
"Do you refuse to accept the salvation the high god offers? Or can you not because you are truly a creature of hell."
"You would know, you hypocrite. You've no more traffic with the gods, than the pig you ate for dinner. I guarantee there's a place waiting for you in hell and you can converse with your god there, for you surly have no contact with it on this plane."
Priests cried out in horror at the blasphemy. Sinakha hit him hard, with a fist or an elbow on the back of the head and drew back to do it again, but the Prophet lifted his ring hand to stop it. Schneider hissed and swung about, slammed a shoulder into Sinakha, taking the captain's moment of unbalance to gain his feet. He got no further than that before Sinakha and others of his guard were one him, grasping his arms, his hair -- to hold him immobile. The Prophet leaned close, reaching out and lifting a stray strand of silver hair, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, smiling slightly into Schneider's fury.
"Do you? Know me? Or do you merely think you do, heathen creature. Your time in hell has not served you well if you stand shackled before the church today. Your demon master will not have one more servant to wreck havoc upon the world of good men."
"No man or demon is my master. Who are you?" He ground out the words, hating the man's hands on him, not able to shake it because of the guards holding him fast.
"I am the prophet of the high god. And he tells me that it is my duty to try and save your black soul by breaking the vessel that holds such evil. You will be cleansed and saved."
Schneider laughed. "You can't save me. The gods don't listen to you anymore."
"Oh, but I can." The Prophet touched his cheek, a grazing of knuckles against flesh that made him flinch. Then, the fingers moved to his forehead and rested there. The Prophet's eyes rolled up in their sockets and he threw back his head, crying out for divine support in his crusade. It was almost laughable, until a lance of white pain shot through Schneider's head. Pain that quickly turned to numb disorientation. His strength fled. Awareness dulled to a tiny pinprick of light and fuzzy vision. His legs gave out and he collapsed back into the arms of his guards.
Vaguely he saw the Prophet standing over him, arms thrown out as if in supplication to the heavens. A miraculous thing happened. Through the dark, heavy stone of the throne room ceiling, a ray of white light shone down, haloing the Prophet in it's pure glow. The crowd cried out in awe, people fell to their knees in reverence. And Angelo, the Holy Prophet of the High God, stood with a secret smile on his lips and satisfaction in his eyes.
Images drifted through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome of the time before. As with most of his memories of that time, they were blurred and disoriented, more like the imaginings of a fever dream than the recollections of a sane mind. He recalled the world when it had been different. When it had been filled to bursting with people and their machines. When the cities that now lay as nothing more than eerie ruins in the bad lands had been shiny and new. He had only vague memories of his own arrival in this world -- it seemed as if one moment there was nothing and the next he was thrust adult and powerful into a world that blithely overlooked such things as magic and the hidden powers that were destined to bring about its destruction. He might have known what he was summoned for then, but the knowledge had fled him not long after the Destruction. He knew it had to do with Ansasla and the powers that had brought the god of destruction forth, but more than that eluded him. He remembered men in that old world that had worked secretly to herald the coming of Ansasla. Abigail had been there, as old as he or older, always watching and influencing from the shadows. And another. A mortal man, who held sway over the beliefs of the multitudes, who believed that his god had chosen him to lead the righteous to the path of salvation. A man who believed that the coming of Ansasla would destroy the wicked and elevate those of his belief. A man who believed he was favored of the angels of god and at their word, worked at the downfall of his civilization.
His name had been Devin Angelino and he had been a priest, risen in the ranks of his denomination to the highest office possible. A pious man who hid his own dark passions under the cloak of religion. Schneider remembered hating him then, too.
He woke with a start, muscles flinching spasmodically from the shock of having a spell of some import being rammed through his skull. His head pounded, feeling swollen and huge. He saw bright, flashing lights in the darkness he opened his eyes upon. He shut them and the vision was exactly the same. Nasty, nasty little subtle spell, the Prophet had used upon him. No particle of power had escaped outside the touch of skin to skin to alert any magic sensitive observer that power had been called at all. It was not a spell he was familiar with, but then again, he had never been particularly interested in secretive demonstrations of power.
Gingerly, he shifted, and heard the rattle of chain. Felt the restraint of manacles still on his wrists, but this time fastened to the front and attacked to a length of chain attached to the wall. Black, cold cell. He had no notion whether it was the same one he had occupied or not. There were none of the comforts Yoko had brought him, at least within easy range. He tried to sit up, and regretted it as his head swam and nausea rose in the back of his throat. He rested his cheek against his knees miserably until the queasiness passed and his head cleared enough to reason.
Angelo. Devin Angelino. The latter had been an old man. An old catholic theologian, who thought the world needed a cleansing of all who did not practice his own beliefs. A man who had too much mortal power, and just a touch of supernatural. A man who had been given magic to impress upon him the favor of god's angels, when they, after all was said and done, were only using him. As they had tried to use Schneider. Devin Angelino had begged for the honor to be their tool and he had, in the end, hated Their chosen vessel, never mind that Schneider had rebelled against their plans for him. Not that it mattered in the end. Nothing could stop Ansasla from devouring the old world and all the monuments it had built. Devin Angelino had supposedly shared the fate of most of the world. For over 400 years Schneider had forgotten he ever existed. He almost doubted it now. It was not the face or the figure of the man he had known. The power he sensed in this man had not belonged to the Devin Angelino of old. Not even close.
And yet. The essence was the same. Only more twisted on the inside and smoother on the out, as if four centuries of working to control the path of man's faith had given him ultimate powers of persuasion. If the Prophet was indeed Devin Angelino, then Schneider had no doubts that every detail of events since his reawakening had been orchestrated and planned to reach this point. For if he recalled correctly, Angelo had always been a man to carry a grudge. Always been a man who planned meticulously. And he had just managed to put on a show that convinced the court that Schneider was a minion of hell, thus preventing any jurisdiction of the crown from the matter. And he had played right into the Prophet's hands. He cursed himself and his temper, but most of all, he cursed the name of Devin Angelino. The Prophet of the High God.