"When you are ready, Master Sulyvahn."
Sulyvahn dug the heel of his left foot into the ground. He studied his opponent carefully. The man's sword arm moved a mere fraction of an inch before the attack came. It came as an upwards sweep, left-to-right. Sulyvahn raised his greatsword and parried the blade past him, then swiftly slashed down for the hip.
His opponent retreated a step out of range, letting Sulyvahn's blade finish its swing before coming in to stab the exposed shoulder. Sulyvahn, keenly aware of his vulnerable position, avoided the strike by following through on his missed swing with a pivot that danced around the thrusting blade and circled around to attack his opponent from the side.
Had he connected, the slash would have severed the man's jugular vein. But this man was no amateur. In an act of nimble ingenuity, he ducked, spun on his heel, and lunged upwards to thrust at Sulyvahn's abdomen. Sulyvahn awkwardly arched his back while reaching out with his sword, allowing the blade to nick his chest even as the sword's weight brought him within easy reach of a killing blow. But his opponent easily batted away the greatsword by hitting the flat of the blade with his own sword's hilt. Sulyvahn's tenuous grip on the weapon made it easy to redirect his blow.
"Remember your footwork. Maintain your balance."
Sulyvahn backed away and reoriented himself. Blade held in both hands, he commenced a new attack. Abandoning the nimble movements of the previous pass, he came at his teacher with barely checked aggression. Downward slash, lunge, sidestep, parry, slice, another lunge.
The swordmaster backed away, furiously defending himself against the unexpected strength of Sulyvahn's onslaught until he was backed against the wall of the stockade. Sulyvahn's blade did not stop until it cut into the wood an inch from the man's neck.
The sword master was dripping with sweat, not all of it from mere exhaustion.
"That was … enthusiastic swordsmanship, Master Sulyvahn."
"I aim to win. Nothing more."
"That final blow, perhaps, could have killed me."
"Not my intention. Nor did I allow it to occur. You are a master of the blade, Rathe. My skill is but the fruit of your teachings."
The fencer eyed the sorcerer warily, nodded, then raised himself to his full height and saluted. Sulyvahn saluted back. Today's lesson was over.
Sulyvahn had come to appreciate the art of swordplay. There was an elegance and finesse to it that merited as much respect as the most powerful magic. And it carried more merit in the eyes of men. A chunk of sharpened steel inspired more fear than a wooden wand. And more respect, if you knew how to properly wield it. Sulyvahn had learned much of fear and respect over the past few years.
He left the stockade and walked through the open muddy lot that passed for the main square of the budding town. The men who gathered here were tough-skinned and hardy, made so by years of living on the fringes of civilization. They were men driven by promises of riches and power. Sulyvahn had brought them here on such promises, and he had delivered.
After claiming the power of the Profaned Flame, he returned to the south to gather men to aid him in excavation. His mere return from the cursed ruins had attracted attention, and the few relics he brought with him as proof had aroused interest. Even so, fear restrained most from following him. Only five came back with him to the Boreal Valley. But from such humble beginnings, ah, a true enterprise had blossomed. The five came back with riches of their own, stories of daring and wealth, and attracted more to arrive. The camp of hide-covered tents grew into huts of thatch and mud, then of stone and wood. A bustling trade developed between the adventurers' settlement and towns in the south. Lumber, food, weapons, and other supplies were carried across the tundra on trails that soon became well-rutted with wagon wheels, and Sulyvahn's private kingdom grew.
In those first years, Sulyvahn learned much of men. He learned what drove them to risk their lives in a monster-haunted ruin, what made them afraid and what could prod them beyond their fear. He learned of the power of words. Promises, exhortations, encouragements. Even a man who had watched his friend die at the hands of an abomination and knew that same fate awaited him with but one false step would gladly risk himself if given the right incentive
They were so … pliable. These men, hard-hearted and crafty, were so easily herded if Sulyvahn but spoke the right words.
Of course, words alone were not always enough. Sulyvahn had had to bring treasure from the Profaned Capital to prove his words were true. And when promises failed, when the fear gave way to doubt or anger, then threats became necessary. Sulyvahn did not scream or rant as some did. He spoke quietly and coolly. The imperfect illusion of his human face became an unexpected boon. Few men dared look him in those icy blue eyes. He was an absolute authority. A man who had no need to raise his voice must have power. And they listened, they cowed, they obeyed.
And the town grew. A boomtown, they called it, grown fat off the plunder taken from the Profaned Capital. But while the adventurers sought gold and silver and jewels, Sulyvahn contented himself with wealth of a more esoteric sort. He had drained the city of its magical secrets, of its scrolls and parchments and vellum that had not aged into dust. Every scrap fed his desire for more. He had learned much of the Profaned Flame, the source of his power, and of the great First Flame that had inspired it. He learned of the great empires of old, of the god-kings who ruled them. Yhorm, Flann, Vendrick, Gwyn. He knew their stories and their legends. He knew everything that was to be gleaned from the Capital. Years had passed. And now, it was time to move on. There was nothing left to gain from this place.
He entered his home and laid his greatsword in its rack. As the settlement's leader, he was afforded the most comfortable of its habitations, a three-roomed house larger by far than any other building save the public house. One room was his bedchamber, one was his library, and the last was his workshop where he experimented with the magics he had plundered.
He stepped into this last room and picked up a diagram of magical formulae with mild interest. He had everything he needed, he told himself. Everything he desired to take. But for what?
Truth be told, he was frustrated. He had been pleased, at first, to finally fill the gnawing hole in his soul that had plagued him for so long. But, gradually, relentlessly, the hole had regrown, tearing itself anew in his innards. His desires had not been sated, merely alleviated. He had power. He was a man of consequence. Now, he needed to do something with that power.
Someone banged on the door. Sulyvahn scowled and opened it. One of his men stood before him, a worried expression on his face.
"What is it?"
"It's the caravan, sir. Martus and his men have returned with … what's left of it."
"I see. Where is Martus now?"
"Headed toward the square."
"I shall see him myself."
Sulyvahn strode out past the man and into the town square, where Martus and others were carrying a couple of bodies and a few scraps of bloodied clothing. The caravans that came to the valley were usually ten or eleven wagons strong. It must have been a dire threat that had destroyed it so thoroughly.
Martus glared at Sulyvahn when he saw the sorcerer approach. Sulyvahn kept his gaze steady on the stocky man's face. During his time as leader of this town, Sulyvahn had identified those who desired his position. The hungry wolves, he called them. Like the predators of his old homeland, they banded together and eyed their prey with calculating eyes, seeking signs of weakness. Martus was the hungriest of all, the one to whom the others paid due. He had been a bandit and a mercenary in his younger days, and he knew how to kill monsters and men with equal efficiency. He wanted Sulyvahn's power. When he first arrived in the valley, he had made his move to take it, but Sulyvahn curbed his ambition. And so Martus seethed and waited for another opportunity.
He threw the corpse he was carrying to the ground and spat contemptuously. "There'll be no mead or meat this month, Sulyvahn. The wagons are wrecked. Nothing but blood and bones left."
"And these remains?"
"Dragged halfway up a mountain. Methinks, we scared off whatever took them when we arrived." He raised his voice. "Ghouls, I'll warrant. Stalking the trade route through the mountains. We're practically prisoners in this valley while they roam free."
Murmurs of apprehension ran through the gathering crowd. Sulyvahn calmly replied, "We have found no traces of ghouls in the mountains. Furthermore, such primitives would present no threat to caravan guards."
Martus grinned nastily. "Then what do you reckon it is, sorcerer? What haunts our settlement? Marauders? Drakes? And what have you done to protect our interests?"
"I acceded to your demands to hunt the perpetrators yourself. And I see you have brought something back, though perhaps not the particular corpses we hoped to be laid at our feet."
"I've risked my neck in the wilds while you content yourself with your books and spells," Martus snapped back. "You rarely even venture into the ruins anymore. You let your minions risk life and limb for you."
"Has any man in this place been devoid of choice in their actions?" Sulyvahn replied. "Was any coerced into coming to this place uninformed of the danger? But enough talk. I see your desire, Martus. You wish me to accompany you on your hunt."
"I need no chaperones, Sulyvahn. I merely wish to see our great leader take action. For the good of our town, you understand."
"Of course." Sulyvahn looked out at the gathered crowd. He called out in a loud voice, "Tomorrow at dawn, ten or twelve good men will be chosen here to join in the hunt. We shall scour the hills and the mountain passes for the threat to our caravans, whether it be man or beast. I shall lead the hunt myself. Martus shall be my right hand."
There were nods of approval among some of the men. Sulyvahn turned back to his rival.
"I am no stranger to the wilds, Martus, nor to hardship. You know this."
"I know that the wilderness is a harsh place. Only some find their place in it. The rest are pushed out."
"Or die. Isn't that the way of the wild?" Sulyvahn looked hard into Martus's scarred face.
Martus said nothing in reply, leaned over to pick up the corpse, and dragged it away to the midden.
Ten or twelve men accompanied Sulyvahn and Martus to the mountain pass on the Boreal Valley's border. The many passes were as narrow and treacherous as the day Sulyvahn had traversed it alongside Lucius, but the trails blazed by numerous waggoneers at least paved a sensible trail through the labyrinth. It was easy enough to find the site of the massacre.
Whatever had struck the caravan had been terribly ferocious, or equipped with mighty weapons or magic. The remnants of horse and human gore splattered the rocks, as if the bodies had been torn open. Sulyvahn silently and methodically inspected the damage with a passive countenance he knew annoyed his more excitable subordinates. While they wasted breath on proclaiming their outrage toward whatever perpetrated this slaughter, he silently observed. Experience had taught him that passion did not resolve crises. Intellect and logic were far more useful tools.
He considered how the ambush was carried out. They now stood in the narrowest stretch of the route. Clefts opened up on either side into the myriad gullies and nooks that dotted the range. There were numerous sites for an ambusher to remain hidden until the opportune moment. There were no signs that weapons had been used, so it would have been reasonable to deduce that beasts or some degenerate race of humanoids were the culprits, save for one simple fact. The supplies in the wagons had been taken away. Animals may have scurried off with the food, but the hides and weapons, as well? Only a more complex creature would be interested in such things.
"It's demons, I tell you," one of the men whispered behind him. "They've a lair in these lands."
"Demons don't eat, you mud-brained twit," Martus responded irritably. "It's predators. Humanoids."
"Conjecture means nothing," Sulyvahn said as he turned to them. "We will know the truth when we see with our own eyes. Now then, Martus, you said you located a trail last you were here. Show us."
Martus had followed the trail through a winding ascent up the slope of one of the smaller mountain peaks. He and his men followed not tracks, which were practically non-existent in the rock, but rather the telltale splatters of blood from the taken corpses, and the occasional piece of cloth or hide fallen from the loot.
The rocky incline led into an open area overlooked by the mountain peak. Here, there was a smattering of brush and trees clinging to life in the heights and a pool of fresh water formed by a trickling waterfall descending from a spring higher up. The peak of the mountain was shaped like a hunched hawk eyeing its prey from its perch. Its shadow fell over them, making the arctic air even colder.
"Well?" Sulyvahn turned to Martus.
"This is as far as we came. Better to get word back to the settlement than face beasts on their own hunting ground."
"Especially when they are capable of taking apart an armed caravan. You would need to return with more men. A very wise decision."
Martus grimaced angrily at Sulyahn's condescending tone. Inwardly, Sulyvahn enjoyed his rival's irritation.
The ground around the mountain pool was soft and moist. It was here that they picked up the trial again. Footprints, and strange ones, too.
"Not humanoid," Sulyvahn observed.
Another hunter, Gregor, shook his head in confusion. "Shaped like the paw of a mountain lion or some other great cat, but walking like a man."
"Not a creature known to you?"
"Nay, I have heard of no such beast."
The tracks led past the pool and down some ways until they disappeared just before reaching a recess in the mountain. Sheets of rock layered on each other formed a natural staircase descending underground. By all appearances, it made a suitable lair.
Martus knelt at the top of the stair. "Dried blood here. And hair." He rose with his hand on his sword hilt. "It's down there."
Abruptly, a bloodcurdling hooting and shrieking echoed all around them. The men immediately huddled together into a circle facing outwards and drew their weapons. The shrieking continued for many long seconds before ending as suddenly as it had begun, until the echoes faded away.
"What was that?" one of the men hissed.
"Demons!"
"Nay, a drake! A bloody dragon!"
"Shut up! That's impossible!"
"Enough."
Sulyvahn's voice, quiet but as hard as iron, penetrated the panicked mutterings and put an end to them. He looked down into the cave entrance. It was black as pitch at the bottom of the hole. He looked up around him, at the various cliffs and crevices where one might hide and watch the hunters.
"Why does a wolf howl?" he asked out loud.
"What?" Martus scowled.
"A simple question, isn't it? Why does a wolf howl?"
"Tsk, that is how it speaks with its fellows. One wolf howling to another on the hunt. Any fool knows that."
"And yet here, the wolf, as it were, howled alone. Strange, isn't it, that a beast would warn its prey it was about to attack?"
"Some monsters have no reason."
"And some make a racket not to hunt, but to frighten away. Because they, in turn, are fearful. We are the hunters here. Make no mistake.
Martus and two others will accompany me into the cave. The rest of you shall remain here. If we do not return by midday, make your way back to the settlement."
Without hesitation, Sulyvahn descended into the cave. He muttered a simple spell that created an orb of light to guide his way.
He heard Martus and others shuffle after him unwillingly, their cowardice suppressed by his own fearlessness and the cold iron in their hands.
"Infernal place," Martus whispered. "Gwyn protect us. This is no place for humans to tread. I say we turn back and collapse the tunnel entrance. Let the nasties remain here forevermore."
Sulyvahn ignored him and kept going.
The tunnel widened and the shadows deepened. The sorcerer's light orb barely cast enough light to cover the four men. They were surrounded by dark as black as ink.
Suddenly, a torch lit up in the darkness to reveal a figure standing in front of them. It was human, just barely, emaciated and clad in rags. The arm that held the torch was almost skeletal. Martus drew his sword.
"I knew it. Bloody ghouls!"
He was about to attack when Sulyvahn blocked him with his arm and pushed him back.
Before Martus could bite out another curse, the emaciated man spoke.
"Have you come seeking?"
"It's a man!" one of the others exclaimed.
Such brilliant logicians, these lackeys of mine, Sulyvahn thought sourly.
"What is it you believe we seek?"
"Salvation."
"From what?"
"The shackles of Flame."
"I have mastered Flame." Sulyvahn drew his sword and raised it aloft. The Profaned Flame engulfed it, illuminating the entire cavern. And the sorcerer saw that they were not alone. Beside the emaciated man, and alongside his own band and following behind, were two dozen or more pale, thin men and women watching them. Had they been there in the shadows all along? They were encrusted in filth and dirty rags. Some carried knives and wooden spears.
And he saw that some of them wore boots over their feet crafted from the feet of mountain lions and gloves with claws stitched over the fingers. Imitations of beasts, such as might inflict the wounds found at the caravan massacre and leave lion tracks that walked like men.
At the sight of the Profaned Flame, they all drew back in terror.
"Slaves of the Light!" one shrieked.
"Kill them! Kill them!" another shouted.
Martus stepped forward. "If any of you scum seek to end my life, know that I'll slaughter the lot of you!"
Before the man could bite out another threat, the sorcerer spoke.
"I would have no blood shed this day. I am the one who speaks for my people, and I would know your purpose here in the heart of the mountain.
He lessened the power within the sword until it glowed a dull red, but the Flame was not completely extinguished. He cautiously approached the first cave dweller. The other wretches tread cautiously about Sulyvahn, hungry eyes fixated on him and the greatsword.
"Who are you?" Sulyvahn asked. "What made you seek salvation in the dark?"
"The Prophet commands it," the man replied. "He speaks the words of the Deep."
"The what?"
The man shook his head slowly. "You follow the Light. You cannot understand."
"I make my own path. This Flame is but an instrument."
"You …" the wretch's eyes narrowed. "You do not follow the gods of Anor Londo?"
"I serve no gods," Sulyvahn responded quietly.
The wretch seemed to consider this. He turned and waved for Sulyvahn to follow.
"I will take you to the Prophet."
Sulyvahn nodded and took a step forward. Martus's hand seized his arm.
"I knew you were arrogant, but I never thought you mad," he hissed. "We are surrounded by madmen, and you denounce the gods. We bring our deaths on our own heads if we follow."
"If you wish to return to the world above, do so."
Martus and the other two made as if to do just that. But before them was a darkness quickly falling as Sulyvahn's light spell was carried away from them. And he alone carried the weapon that frightened the cave dwellers.
They begrudgingly followed Sulyvahn, for they had no choice. As the sorcerer knew they would.
The cave dwellers escorted the band deeper into their domain. Sulyvahn began to see crude ornaments decorating the tunnels. Scraps of cloth hung from wooden poles like banners and stone bowls filled with rotten meat that marked grisly altars. He also saw piles of what he knew was supplies meant for the Boreal Valley, half-empty crates and sacks piled haphazardly in various corners of the caverns.
At last, they reached an open, circular chamber whose perimeter was marked by numerous dimly-lit torches. A mound of rock covered in animal skins and half-melted candles served as a makeshift throne for the man who sat upon it. He was a plump man of indeterminate age, his clean-shaven face blackened by soot and dirt and his rotund body covered in a black robe. He smiled at the new arrivals with an air of enlightened superiority.
"Step forth," the Prophet commanded. "Be known to he who serves the will of the Deep."
"I am Sulyvahn of the Boreal Valley. Your servants have been raiding my caravans, killing my men. I would know why."
"You state this as an accusation of wrongdoing."
"Do you deny it?"
"Do not all things seek to survive?"
"Some through cunning and sleight of hand. Others through violence and cruelty. Which are you, I wonder?"
The Prophet laughed, a gratingly ugly sound. "Persistent and fearless. I admire such bravery. Alas, to be limited by gross ignorance. You know not what you have stumbled upon, Sulyvahn of the Boreal Valley."
"Enlighten me."
"Enlighten? Do you believe light a source of salvation and strength? Do you think the Flame is your strength?" He pointed at Sulyvahn's sword. "Even that Flame, that counterfeit you have enslaved?"
"I am a seeker of knowledge. I seek to understand, and so to gain strength through understanding." He held up the sword. "This is but a step on my path. I swear no fealty to Light or Fire."
"It's blasphemy," one of Sulyvahn's men muttered.
"You intrigue me," the Prophet said. "I wonder if you understand your own words. For if you are faithless to Fire, you have but one master left to serve."
Sulyvahn smirked. "The Dark? That which great kings and warriors have sacrificed themselves for eons to hold back?"
The Prophet grinned in return and hefted himself off his throne.
"You are a strange one, Sulyvahn of the Boreal Valley. Follow me. You seek knowledge, I shall offer it. Whether you accept is your own choice to make."
"And these?" He gestured to his men.
"They shall not be touched. This order do I give." This last statement he said loudly, so that all in the chamber could hear. Some of his followers grumbled quietly, but they did not approach the three men as Sulyvahn followed the Prophet into another chamber hidden behind a curtain of animal hides.
This was a smaller cave. Its floor was covered in wooden mats and candles illuminated it in yellow. The Prophet walked over to a booth formed from a wooden frame and hanging furs. The fat man gestured to it.
"My confessional," he chuckled. "A leftover quirk from my days in the church of the Way of White. Have you ever seen a cathedral of that religion?"
"I have not."
"Grand and mighty they stand. And the priests are old and wise. They preach of the greatness of Fire, as all do, and they summon forth miracles granted by their gods. For all the good that has done. Hollow words and hollow deeds. I discovered a greater truth than what they proclaim. For that they cast me and my followers into the wilderness.
When the time comes for one of my children to be initiated in the deeper truths granted to me, I bring them here and conceal myself within the confessional. I ask them hard questions, and they answer. I pry deep into their souls, revealing the truth of their nature and intent. And so I judge if they are worthy of being accepted by the Deep, or if …" He smiled, exposing rotten teeth.
"What becomes of the unworthy?"
"The Deep is harsh. It can be cruel. And so I, too, must be cruel."
"Do your other neophytes know that you punish, perhaps kill, those who fail your standards?"
"What if I told you yes? What if I told you that there are many who willingly, gladly, come to this mountain and embrace the Dark?"
"I would say that you offer something they lack," Sulyvahn said.
"Yes. Yes, I see it in you. You seek it, too, do you not?"
"I told you what I seek."
"Knowledge, yes," the Prophet waved off the answer. "But knowledge is but a means to the end, it is not the goal itself."
"What is?"
"Salvation!"
Sulyvahn was growing tired with the Prophet's vague words. "I have not come here to be lectured on esoteric religion. Your followers have attacked and killed my own. I would know why, and I would know what is required to end these attacks."
"Ah, yes, a practical man. Yes, let us speak of the practical. Look there." He pointed to an altar set on a boulder at the far end of the room. Several bowls were laid out on it.
Sulyvahn approached and inspected the bowls. They were filled with bones. He picked up one of the containers and looked more closely. They were not animal bones. They were finger bones. Human finger bones.
"I see," he said slowly as he laid down the bowl. "So, your people willingly come to the mountain to participate in cannibalism?"
"Yes," the Prophet cackled. "That is the way of the Deep. To consume is to live. To devour is to gain strength. The flesh of men is greater than the flesh of beasts. And those who devour men are the stronger."
"You are mad," Sulyvahn said off-handedly. "This Deep of yours, whatever it is, is a delusion. You are but a disgraced priest living in a pit. A rabid dog to be put down."
If the Prophet was angered by these words, he didn't show it. "If you believed your own words, Sulyvahn of the Boreal Valley, you would have already struck me down."
The words stung Sulyvahn, for they were true. What held back his hand? Morbid curiosity? Certainly not fear, for he had none for this madman, equipped as he was with his greatsword. But his words did intrigue him. He implied there was a power other than Fire, perhaps even greater than Fire, that was at work in the world.
"What is the Deep?"
"The primordial foundation. It is the wellspring of humanity, and that to which it returns. The souls of men descend into the primordial depths and form the shackles that hold together all of creation. There was a time, of course, when I did not understand this truth. I was a seer for the Way of White. I saw the future in the entrails of animals, the shape of clouds, and yes, in the ashes of fire. I did not know the Deep, and believed the First Flame was the source of all.
The world is cruel, though, even to a holy man. My faith in Fire availed me not. I was beaten, abused, imprisoned and left to starve, with only corpses for company. I survived by doing what must be done. That was my first revelation of the Deep. To consume is to live. To live and to survive is the foundation of humanity's nature just as the Deep is the foundation of the world.
My second revelation came when I looked into the ashes and saw … only ashes. No future, no vision, or so I thought at first. Then I realized, this was the future. Only ashes awaited us all. The Fire would go out, and the world would return to darkness."
"You foresaw an apocalypse," Sulyvahn said. "Something you could not escape. Did you despair?"
"At first. But as I meditated over this vision, I came to understand that this is the way of things. It is meant to be. Dark will overtake Light. The future world is of the Deep. The Deep, you see, is like an ocean, its cold waters covering the scorched ground and dragging us to its uttermost depths. It consumes the old word and becomes the new . And we who embrace it shall be reborn and become greater than the old gods of Fire."
"Salvation."
"Indeed. Do you understand now?"
"You mimic the Deep by consuming human flesh, just as you believe the Deep will devour all one day. And as the Deep grows stronger through its feasting, you believe you grow stronger through the flesh you devour. All this, in preparation for an age when the Fire will go out forevermore."
"It is inevitable, Sulyvahn. I have foreseen it."
"And what then? You will become the new god of this age? Or will you merely be food for an even greater power?"
"The Deep rewards me for my devotion. I have power, power I doubt you have seen even in the Profaned Capital."
"Show me."
A slow smile came over the Prophet's face. He departed the cave back into his throne room, and Sulyvahn followed him.
The Prophet seated himself on his throne and picked up a gnarled staff that lay against it. He held it in both hands with reverence.
"What's happening?" Martus demanded. "What will they do to us?"
"I think," Sulyvahn mused, "he means to teach us."
The Prophet arose. He began chanting, and with the words, a gust of chilling air blew out the torches and plunged them all into darkness. The Prophet's words filled the air.
"I serve the Deep. I channel the Deep. The Deep fills me with power. The ancient darkness. Know, slave of Fire. Know the power that sustains me."
Martus and his human comrades were blind in this darkness. But not Sulyvahn. He incanted a light orb of even greater brightness to illuminate his surroundings. The dark here, though, was like a thing alive. The sphere did not shine as greatly as it should, and Sulyvhan realized it was because the darkness in the cave was actively pushing back.
The Prophet's chanting continued, reaching a fever pitch in volume and frantic excitement. At last, there was a triumphant roar.
Something came at Sulyvahn from the dark. Something that was blacker than the blackness around it. Out of it peered two white eyes. It lunged out with two grasping hands. Sulyvahn's greatsword roared again into full flame, and he swung at the entity. The entity retreated for a moment, then lunged again. He stabbed into it. The fire flared up, exposing a being of roughly humanoid shape before it dissipated into nothingness.
"I am not impressed," the sorcerer declared.
"Witness, my children, the unbeliever." The echoes made the Prophet's voice seem to come from every direction. "Witness his conversion, or his death."
From the murky darkness surrounding him emerged a horde of slithering misty shapes. They limped and crawled at Sulyvahn, some with clawed hands, others with weapons half-rusted away. What manner of summoning magic this was, Sulyvahn could not guess. He backed away from the horde, slashing away at them.
Every one he struck dissolved into dust, but each were quickly replaced by more. One came at him from the side and grazed his arm, and another seized his leg. With their touch, he felt a terrible numbness in his limbs. This was not the cold he knew. This was more than merely an arctic chill or a cold winter wind. This was the absence of all heat. This was a cold that knew not even the notion of life.
More hands seized him, and his vision blurred as his inner warmth was drained away. He slumped to the floor. Even the Profaned Flame flickered in his blade.
And then, the shapes faded away, slinking back to whatever pit they had been summoned from. A new shape emerged from the darkness. The Prophet.
"Now do you see, sorcerer?"
"Yes," Sulyvahn whispered.
"This is the power of the Deep. This is the power of those who shall inherit the world after Fire. The Deep is relentless, the Deep is eternal. When the old world fades into ash, the Deep shall endure. The foundation of the world endures forever!"
As the Prophet's boasts continued, Sulyvahn bided his time. He felt the warmth returning to his limbs, the life returning to his body. As his opponent's speech reached its triumphant crescendo, Sulvhan rose up and swung his sword at the Prophet's head. The staff came up and blocked the blow with a strength greater than mere wood. The Prophet roared and darkness oozed from the staff, covering both of them in the spell's substance.
Sulyvahn was blind. A blow unseen knocked him back to the ground. He had had enough of this game. He channeled all his might into his greatsword. The blade flared up. The Profaned Flame, counterfeit though it might be, still held some essence of the First flame. It cast back enough of the darkness to reveal the surprised face of the Prophet. Sulyvahn swung the sword through the air. The flames billowed, causing the cult leader to back away, trip and fall onto his back.
Sulyvahn pointed the sword at him.
"Do you yield, Prophet?"
"Nay, I shall not die. The Deep sustains me."
For a moment, the Prophet stared into his face with defiant eyes, daring him to strike a final blow. Sulyvahn considered, and reached his decision.
He knelt in deference.
"What is this?" the Prophet demanded.
"Such power merits respect, Herald of the Deep. My power cannot match yours."
"You confess your errors?"
"I confess my arrogance. I thought I knew much of this world. Now I see that there is power more ancient and mightier than any I have yet discovered."
Two minions appeared to help the Prophet to his feet. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"You seek to save your own life through flattery."
"No." A smile skittered across Sulyvahn's face. "Do not all seek to continue living? To consume is to live. Would it not be right, then, for me to seek the strength you possess? To derive power from the Deep?"
"The Deep is not to be treated with such flippancy. But," the Prophet gazed thoughtfully at his staff, as if seeking counsel from it. "You are strong, sorcerer. And I sense that you can become stronger still. Even so, why should I trust your words?"
"You know the will of the Deep. What is its will for this moment? Perhaps my victory was no fluke. Perhaps the Deep has a use for me."
From behind him, the voice of Martus erupted.
"Sulyvahn, you loathsome swine! Heretic! May Gwyn curse you for your -"
"Restrain them," the Prophet barked. Hands thin as twigs but strong as iron held Martus and the other two men in place.
Sulyvahn continued.
"You live in caves, hiding from the world. Is this what you desire? You hold fast to the Deep. Why then, should you not proclaim it to all, freely and without fear?"
"How can you be of use in such a matter?"
"You possess your creed, Prophet. I possess resources. I have my own followers, men with strong sword arms and steely nerves. I have contacts beyond the valley. You preach to outcasts. I can help you preach to men of greater rank."
"I am a seer. I see much and know much already," the Prophet responded, but his eyes were thoughtful. "Why do you do this, Sulyvahn of the Boreal Valley?"
"Because you and I possess something in common."
"And what is that?"
"Vision."
"Well, well. A convert, after all, eh? But you have merely given me words. How shall you prove that you will devote yourself to the Deep?"
Sulyvahn turned to his three men. They trembled, looking at him with confused and angry expressions.
"The gods will punish you," Martus snarled as Sulyvahn raised his sword.
With a single swing, Martus's head rolled onto the ground. With a second, his entrails spilled. The other two were dealt with similarly.
"Sacrifice for the Deep," Sulyvahn proclaimed.
The Prophet gawked at the sight with wide eyes. Then he laughed in delight.
"You have the shape of a man, Sulyvahn, but the heart of something else altogether! I accept this offering. My children! Partake in the feast!"
Sulyvahn would have to explain the deaths of the three men to the others. That should be a simple matter. They all knew that Martus had long coveted Sulyvhan's position, and that he was hotheaded and impulsive. He would convince his men that Martus and his cronies had tried to kill the sorcerer in the dark. Sulyvahn had defended himself. If that did not suffice, he would say that Martus had been provoked because the sorcerer had defended a holy man whose strange creed Martus had despised.
The settlement may question it. They may even disbelieve it. But Sulyvahn was their leader by virtue of strength and skill. And these were hard men, wolves who exploited and despised weakness. The deaths of three weaker men would be of no consequence in the long run.
Sulyvahn stood by and watched the Prophet and his followers devour the three corpses. It was good that his false face showed little emotion, or else the disdain he felt for these animals would have shown as clearly as the summer sun. But he was a patient man. They would serve his purpose for now, until he could safely cast them aside.
And to think, just yesterday he had feared what to do with his life now that the Profaned Capital's secrets had sated him.
The Prophet turned from his feast and wiped the blood from his mouth as he spoke to Sulyvahn.
"Your offering is generous, sorcerer. I foresee that you are one acceptable to the Deep."
"There is no need for your confessional?"
"All in good time, my friend. All in good time."
"Do we have an accord, then?"
"Yes. I swear by the Deep, by my name as Aldrich, its prophet and instrument, that we shall stand as allies to the common cause of its spread and glorification. Come now, take my hand, Sulyvahn."
Sulyvahn only hesitated a passing moment before he grasped the gore-covered hand of the Prophet Aldrich. The man spoke words in some dark language and Sulyvahn felt the familiar darkness flowing over him again. He held back a brief fear, and awaited whatever may come.
The darkness ebbed, and all was right again.
"Now, you are marked by the Deep, Sulyvahn. You shall be my faithful hand, to do my will and the will of the Deep."
"And so I shall. I hope that, in time, I may come to understand the Deep and its power."
"You shall, Sulyvahn. I know you shall."
He turned to face his "children." "My kin, my people! Today is a great day! For today we no longer hide from the unbelievers! We shall go forth and spread the word of the Deep to all corners of the world! And this," he put his hand on Sulyvahn's shoulder. "May this be the first of many converts! May the Deep abide and consume the world of Fire!"
The cheers and mantras of the followers of the Deep followed Sulyvahn as he and Aldrich departed the tunnels and emerged into the evening sunlight. The men left here were gone. They had returned to the settlement, as they had been commanded.
What a surprise, what a terrific shock it would be, to see Sulyvahn returning with a horde of fanatics. Blasphemers. Heretics. But what use had Sulyvahn for Fire, anymore? He was a practical man. He had the power of the Profaned Flame. Now the power of the Deep would be his.
Aldrich thought that the Deep had sent him. But Sulyvahn knew better. He would master the Deep and make it his own.
Their procession arrived at the edge of the Boreal Valley. He looked down on it. Strange, how small it now seemed. A pile of rubble, a gathering of tents and huts. Had he truly once been content with this tiny scrap of land?
He wanted more than this. He could take more, as much as he needed. He had endured many trials already. What could stop him now?
And he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this was right. For he was, and always had been, meant for so much more.