Sulyvahn's army marched south. It left behind the smoldering ruins of another village that had refused the truth of the Deep. Poor souls. As penitence, its inhabitants had paid the price of their unbelief.
The Voice of the Deep was in a cheerful mood. The thought of the force assembled in his wake set his heart racing with pleasure. Now and truly, he had raised a legion to do with as he pleased. His army. Not a ragtag band of fanatical peasants and outcasts spurred on by a desperate desire for kind words and faint hopes. No, these were men and women properly armed and clad in iron forged in the furnaces of Duke Wain's castle. One thousand strong, trained and hardened by their grim work. Proper knights. The Knights of Sulyvahn, they were already called. Behind this column marched the foot-soldiers, the luggage train, the cooks and servants and camp followers forming a long line that extended for over a mile.
The Deep spread like a storm across the land. A storm of his own making. Oh, yes, Sulyvahn had risen to heights of power even he, for all his vision, could never have dared imagine. The north bowed to the Deep. The Prophet Aldrich was praised across forest and hill and valley, and hundreds pilgrimaged daily to the Boreal Valley to bear witness to his splendor. At Sulyvahn's command, of course. Was he not the Voice that carried the Prophet's truth? Was he not the one who had transformed Aldrich's mad ramblings into a great movement that would make all of Lordran shudder?
With the people of the north converted or subdued, Sulyvahn now turned his eyes to the southern regions. To Anor Londo itself. The capital would heed the Voice, and its old gods would be cast down.
The road descended into a valley browned by the hot sun. That infernal heat. Sulyvahn remembered it. He remembered his younger self wandering through the marshes, drowning in mud, at the mercy of bandits. He expected it now, anticipated it, but even so, that accursed heat! He despised it.
An outrider who had scouted the trail ahead returned and bid speak with Sulyvahn. He granted the scout leave.
The rider pointed ahead. "Three miles down. Men in black robes approach us."
"What of it?" Sulyvahn replied.
"They escort wagons. The wagons carry cages filled with men and women."
"Slavers?"
"I do not know, master. I saw no weapons."
"We will be ready." Sulyvahn turned to the officers at his side. "Put the troops on alert, but do not draw arms unless first attacked. We will see for ourselves what sort share our road."
A half-hour later, the two caravans met. Sulyvahn was confident in the size and strength of his army, but he was nonetheless impressed by the magnitude of the robed men's retinue. They rode mules, and alongside them were many dozens of wagons stuffed with iron cages. The poor souls trapped within were gaunt and listless. Clearly, they had been held for many days, perhaps weeks, in the thrall of their masters.
Both processions stopped. There was no room for one or the other to make way. Sulyvahn rode a little ahead and called out in a commanding voice:
"I am Sulyvahn, Voice of the Deep and servant of the Prophet Aldrich. I come bearing the word of the Deep and its primordial truths. Speak now, and make yourselves known, you who carry men like livestock."
One of the men rode up to meet Sulyvahn. He was a comical sight, this portly fellow with scrawny legs hanging over the sides of his little mule. He pulled back his hood, revealing a face with heavy jowls and porcine eyes.
"Hail and well met, Master Sulyvahn! Truly, the Deep guides us all. I am McDonnell. I lead these pilgrims to the Boreal Valley to partake in the blessings of our shared master."
"You serve Aldrich?"
"We do," McDonnell replied with a grin that bared rotten teeth. "You are not the only one at work furthering the will of the Prophet."
"Indeed," Sulyvahn replied coolly. "And such work you accomplish. These are …" He gestured to the prisoners.
"As I said, pilgrims sent to partake in the Prophet's blessings."
Sulyvahn need not imagine the fate that awaited these wretches. And so many, as well. Aldrich had indeed been busy, sending out his personal minions to round up tribute for his appetites.
"You do not approve?" McDonnell inquired.
"The Prophet's wisdom cannot be questioned. We each serve the Deep in our own ways."
"Yes," McDonnell said and scratched a fat cheek. "We do, don't we? But look, twilight is coming and my fellows are tired from a long day's journey. Let us make camp on that hill over there, and we can have fellowship, yes?"
Sulyvahn considered this for a moment. There was a furtive manner in McDonnell that annoyed him. Indeed, he was much like Aldrich – a fat, slovenly man with a smug aura of absolute conviction. A fanatic. To resist his offer may bring trouble.
"I accept your offer. Let us get to know one another better."
"How long has the Prophet been sending out these missionaries?"
Sulyvahn had made camp in a series of vales ringing the foot of a large rock ridge between it and the marshlands. The tents stretched on for many miles. Within the largest and most luxurious tent, Sulyvahn spoke with McDonnell, the strange, fat man in heavy robes whose eyes gleamed with cunning.
"For many years," McDonell replied. "Ever since we received word in the Boreal Valley of the work of a great prophet who spread the truth of the Deep."
"Yes, the word of Aldrich has spread and far and wide. The soil in these lands is fertile. Many have grown in the wisdom of the Deep."
"Strange, it was not his name that reached our ears." McDonnell cocked his head and peered at Sulyvahn with one eye, like a rooster getting a better look at a worm. "It was yours."
"I do not understand."
"Sulyvahn, Voice of the Deep," McDonell cackled. "A grandiose title. Who gave it to you?"
"I fail to follow."
"Do not play dumb. You are ill-suited for it. Aldrich is … conflicted about you."
Once again, Sulyvahn was thankful his illusionary face showed so little emotion. In his heart, he felt a sickening irritation. "Does he doubt me? Do my works not testify to my loyalty?"
McDonnell seized on his words like a pouncing cat. "Ah, yes, your works. A mighty army, you have, Sulyvahn. And so many followers! Soldiers who carve out territory and sing praises to your name. Such wealth and power! Ah, poor Sulyvahn," McDonnell let out a melodramatic sigh. "Aldrich fears you have lost your way. You have succumbed to the temptations of a world soon to pass away."
Sulyvahn crossed his arms and stared down the fat man. "What I have done is in the name of the Deep. My followers heed its precepts. And they heed because I hold authority. Because they see my might and know that I am blessed by the primordial ocean. The Deep rises against Fire, and it triumphs."
"Spare me your sermons. I am not a novice. Neither am I blind nor deaf. I have heard and seen much in my travels. I have heard your words echoed by your prattling chattel. They are callow, superficial. You deprive your listeners of harsh truths in favor of glib talk of comfort and worldly gain."
"Small steps, McDonnell, small steps," Sulyvahn replied evenly. "The truth of the Deep – the reality of it – is not something one accepts all at once."
"I did."
"Oh?"
"I was like Aldrich. A slave to the Way of White. To come this way again reminds me of what a fool I once was. There's a cathedral near here, you know. It was once a ruin. Pity it did not remain so. But some of my former brothers have taken it upon themselves to rebuild it. Idiots! They cling to old lies. Praise be to the Deep that I came to my senses and sought out Aldrich."
"Aldrich was exiled from the Way of White."
"Aye, but many later followed him willingly," McDonnell chuckled. "To my shame, I was slow to accept the truth, but now I'm making up for lost time. You know it, don't you? The ecstasy of liberation from the chains of foolish faith and basking in the cold brutality of the all-consuming ocean!"
"Yes, I know of its joys."
A sense of nervousness pervaded his mind. Not only this indication that Aldrich harbored second thoughts about him, but McDonnell's mention of a cathedral had sparked a dim memory. A cathedral? He recollected the old ruins he had seen when first he escaped his homeland. It was near these very marshlands. Could it be the same?
He spoke casually, as if tossing out an idle question.
"These former brothers of yours, might they hold interest in theological debate?"
"Ha! There's nothing more satisfying then converting old fogeys like that! But my brothers and I must be along quickly. The pilgrims must reach the Boreal Valley, and we can only keep them alive so long."
"You have your work, I have mine. Point me in the cathedral's direction, and we shall part ways to serve the Deep in the manner best suited to us."
"Ah, you want to see it? Curiosity. A sin and a virtue, eh?"
"Curiosity can be the first step to salvation."
"Oh, I like that! I like that very much." He ground his teeth in a moment of thought. "Tell you what, Sulyvahn, I'll take you there myself. And why not? It's been so long since I've chatted with my old comrades."
The cathedral loomed like a black monolith amidst the highlands west of the marshes. Sulyvahn silently cursed it as he and McDonnell approached. The memories swarmed about him like gadflies – the inky void that enveloped him, the confusion of his arrival, the unbearable heat and stench, the maddened Corvians and mocking bandits. And there was Lucian, too, an old ally long gone. But no, the sight of the cathedral stirred up more foul memories than fair. He was seized with a sudden desire to tear down the structure, brick by brick, until it was naught but rubble.
"Ah, they are on their guard," McDonnell muttered as they rode up to the entrance. Flanking the great doors were two knights in full armor and face-concealing helmets. They stood at attention at the sight of the two riders.
"Speak your names, visitors," one of them said. His voice was respectful, but wary.
"I am Sulyvahn, Voice of the Deep. And this is McDonnell, a fellow brother."
"What do you seek here in the Cathedral of the Allfather?"
"To speak with your archdeacon," McDonell interjected. "To share our wisdom, one with the other." A note of sarcasm entered his voice.
The knights glanced at each other, then one swung the door knocker. After a few moments, the great doors lurched open with a mighty groan. Three clerics in simple gray robes stood in the doorway. The tallest among them frowned at the two men.
"Why did you summon me for such as these?" the cleric scowled at the sentries.
"It is Sulyvahn," the knight replied simply.
The other two clerics expressed surprise and alarm. The tall one scoffed.
"The great heretic has come at last," he said in a sardonic voice. "Come for tea, perhaps? An early luncheon?"
"That could be arranged, I'm sure," McDonnell growled, and Sulyvahn caught the double-meaning in his words.
"No," he said firmly, determined to keep relations peaceable for now. "We come as humble seekers of wisdom. We come to share our ways with the Way of White, just as surely as you must desire to share your knowledge with others."
"You presume much to think you are welcome here, warmonger."
The cleric gestured to the two knights. Like clockwork, their swords swung upward and crossed each other, barring entry into the cathedral.
"I kindly ask you to leave," the cleric stated.
McDonnell spat on the ground and turned to leave. Sulyvahn stayed where he was.
"Are you deaf and blind?" the cleric wailed. "Begone from these sacred grounds! Take your blasphemy elsewhere!"
Sulyvahn simply stared at him.
"Is not this house of worship open to all?" he said quietly. "Or only to those who bow to your own beliefs?"
"Do not press us," the cleric growled. "We will not –"
"Let them enter, Brother Galen."
From behind the clerics, a small man stooped with age walked forward. He wore a white robe and a simple white cap that covered his balding head. A thick, somewhat disheveled beard covered most of his face. His eyes glinted with an intelligence and awareness that belied his advanced age.
"Accept my deepest apologies for the actions of my brethren," the old man said to Sulyvahn. He waved at the knights, and they lowered their swords. He stepped out to meet the sorcerer face-to-face.
"These are troubled times, and trust is a precious rarity. Forgive our rudeness."
Sulyvahn dismounted his horse. "You have my thanks for your hospitality …"
"Gregory," McDonnell's voice sounded from behind him. The fat man had returned, eyes fixed on the old priest. "Archdeacon Gregory." He bowed his head with a modicum of respect. "It has been a long time."
"Indeed, McDonnell," Gregory returned the bow. "Come, I shall have your mounts stabled and fed. We have little to offer in the way of creature comforts, but we have food and a warm fire. And I am sure seekers of wisdom such as yourselves have questions aplenty."
The archdeacon gave them a tour of the cathedral, explaining its history, how it had been rebuilt and furbishing details of the symbolism of the architecture. He answered Sulyvahn's prying questions about the Way of White and the theology of the First Flame as a whole, and did so with a calm patience and courtesy that Sulyvahn found both disarming and intriguing. Here was a man who was neither frightened nor awed by the Voice of the Deep. McDonnell, for his part, followed along, grumbling to himself, and scoffing at his surroundings. Gregory patiently endured McDonnell's occasional taunts and challenges with the long-suffering patience of one who was accustomed to such behavior. It was evident the two men had known each other a long time. There may have been bad blood between them, but evidently it was all on McDonnell's side.
They concluded the tour with a modest meal in a small side chamber. The meal consisted of bread, bean stew, a bit of chicken, and water. Sulyvahn, as always unable to consume human sustenance, abstained, claiming to be fasting. McDonnell eagerly claimed his portion and ate heartily. Gregory regarded both of them with an expression that rang faintly of amusement.
Sulyvahn steepled his fingers and gazed at Gregory. "It is curious that this outpost exists, this beacon of a dying faith in the new world."
Gregory smiled. "Faith is not a matter, I find, of gravitating to popular movements of the current age. It is a much more personal affair. I entered the Way of White when I was thirty years old. An advanced age for a novice. But I did not believe as a young man. I was wayward, trouble-prone."
"What prompted your change of heart?"
"I came to realize the hollowness of my lifestyle. The meaninglessness of worldly gain. I struggled for more, but it pleased me not. My hedonism was a thin façade covering the emptiness within me."
"And you found fulfillment by joining the covenant?"
"I repented of my old ways and sought to serve something greater than myself. I sought to help others, and in so doing, to serve the gods."
"The gods are gone or dead," McDonnell grunted through a mouthful. "Who is left to serve?"
"The Dark Sun resides in Anor Londo. He is the last, it is true," Gregory replied quietly.
"The last," Sulyvahn repeated. "Dead gods are not worthy of devotion."
"But the souls of dead gods still shine brightly. Do not misunderstand, Sulyvahn. There is, perhaps, a misconception of the term. The gods, as they call themselves, were the ones to draw the Lord Souls from the Flame. Their power, indeed, their authority, is drawn from the Flame. Allfather Lloyd himself founded my covenant after receiving a portion of the power of the Lord Soul of his nephew Gwyn."
"Allfather in name only," McDonnell said. "Everyone knows the title was self-appointed. Those that even remember his name at all. Countless years have passed, and the truth is buried under myth, rumor and wishful thinking. The Lord Souls? The power of the gods? Were you there to see these things? Or do you follow blindly the ancient teachings passed down by hypocrites who seek only to preserve their privileges and influence?"
Sulyvahn watched the archdeacon carefully, curious to see how he would respond to such strong words of condemnation.
"It is true that I have never witnessed the power of the First Flame. I have never seen the gods. Indeed, there are many times when I have doubted my faith."
Sulyvahn leaned in closer, fascinated by this admission. "You doubt? An archdeacon of the Way of White doubts his own religion?"
"Doubts are healthy. Blind faith is dangerous, wouldn't you agree?" He cocked an eyebrow at Sulyvahn. "To trust in something blindly is to serve a master of unknown quantity. What if you serve an evil purpose? And what if, that which appears innocent manifests its true dark nature? Better to test your beliefs, question the path you walk from time to time, to ensure that you are not being led along by pride and ignorance."
"You speak of faith, and then speak of testing. Curious, for faith cannot be tested. It is, by its nature, an abstract principle."
Gregory nodded in agreement. "Faith is the hope in things that cannot be seen or measured. But he who trusts in something must still give an account for his actions, would you not agree?"
"Foolishness, Gregory," McDonnell said. "The Deep does not require trust. It merely is. It is nature, and nature cannot be resisted or reasoned with. You either fight its currents and drown, or you embrace it and become a part of the natural order. You become part of something massive and greater than any feeble human or god."
"And the First Flame? Is it not part of nature?"
"The Flame is dying. It has been dying for thousands of years," Sulyvahn replied.
"Yet kept alive by the cycle. The souls of the Lords of Cinder have kept it alive for many generations. And it endures, keeping the world whole."
"Is that natural?"
Gregory's eyebrows creased as he pondered this question.
"I confess that I do not have a firm answer for that question."
Sulyvahn was taken off guard by this reply. "You have none?"
"The Deep will rule," McDonnell boasted. "It is the future."
Gregory's face remained passive, unperturbed. What was it this man possessed, to be so untouched by this confrontation?
"Perhaps you are right," Gregory said thoughtfully. "Perhaps the Deep will overtake the Flame, this primordial darkness you preach of. Perhaps the Flame is fallible, and I have misplaced my faith." He shrugged. "And yet, some say the Flame itself replaced an even older power. And who is to say its heir, the Deep, is eternal?"
He rose and stretched his back. "I thank you, both. You have given me much to think about. It is good to discuss ideas and share new perspectives. But now," he stifled a yawn. "Forgive me, but the hour is late. I will show you to your quarters for the night and then retire."
Sulyvahn felt a deep burning hole in his gut as he entered the small bedroom. This man unnerved him. He frightened him, this old man who appeared no more harmful than a rabbit. And he hated him for that.
A little while later, while he sat on his mattress, lost in his thoughts, there was a ferocious banging on the door. He opened it to admit McDonnell. The fat man looked as agitated as Sulyvahn felt.
"Why do you do nothing?" McDonnell hissed.
"What do you mean?"
"You have an army! Why does this cathedral still stand?"
"Because I did not know of its existence until a day ago."
"Bah! You're blind, Sulyvahn, blind! We stand in a hive of lies and temptations! By their very presence, these clerics threaten to draw away the faithful of Aldrich! They must not be allowed to live!"
"No."
"What?"
"I will not. Not yet."
McDonnell's plump face turned a deeper shade of red. "You do nothing? You permit these heresies to flourish?"
"I permit them, yes."
"Why?"
Sulyvahn hesitated. Why indeed? What about this place, these clerics, had set him off-balance? He felt as he did when he was a pupil of his old Corvian mentor. Always listening, always asking, always learning, but always knowing that he had no agency of his own. He was the learner, at the mercy of his master.
"They may yet be of use to our cause," he replied at last, reinforcing his words with the illusion of certainty.
"What use?"
"Patience, McDonnell, patience." He expressed a thin smile. "Have faith."
The next morning, Sulyvahn and McDonnell bid farewell to the archdeacon and returned to the camp.
McDonnell remained angry at Sulyvahn. After they arrived, the cleric demanded a meal of meat and stew, after which he planned to travel onward to rejoin his caravan. Sulyvahn retired to his tent.
Around midday, one of his lieutenants lifted the tent flap and bowed apologetically.
"Forgive me, Master Sulyvahn, but a group of priests have arrived in camp. They ask to see you."
"Followers of the Way of White?" Sulyvahn inquired.
"So they say."
Sulyvahn noted the man's doubtful tone as he exited his tent and followed him to the camp's edge, where a group of about a dozen priests were gathered. There was indeed something curious about them. He quickly realized what it was: the priests had removed all of their regalia identifying their covenant. They travelled incognito.
Their leader bowed before the Voice of the Deep. He was a slight, thin man with a tuft of white hair on his head. "Greetings, Sulyvahn. I am grateful that you have not yet moved camp."
"Come with words from Archdeacon Gregory?"
"No," the man replied, and he looked very nervous. "We come of our own will."
"Well, then, what do you want?"
The man worked his lips, trying to find the words. "I am called Royce. These, my brothers, and I have come with inquiries into your ways."
"And what might be the nature of those inquiries?" Sulyvahn was wary. Was this a trap arranged by the Way of White? Some means of infiltrating his ranks with spies?
"In the past few years," Royce continued, "there have been … disagreements, you might say, within the church. Divisions over doctrine and so forth. It grows tiresome to see our covenant hamstringed by obsessions over statutes and precepts. And so …" His voice trailed off.
"Why have you come?" Sulyvahn insisted.
"When McDonnell left us, it opened our eyes. We saw that there was another path. We have discussed it at great length. We wish to learn that path."
"The way of the Deep?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because we wish to live, and the First Flame is dying."
"You are a coward, then."
Royce winced. "Perhaps, but cowards survive, do they not?"
A loud, bellowing laugh sounded. McDonnell walked up, a chicken leg in his hand. He gestured at Royce.
"So, you finally broke, did you, Royce? I told you that you would." He turned to Sulyvahn. "Trust this one, Sulyvahn. He has not the wits to deceive, nor the stomach to backstab. Fill his head with your wisdom. Or better yet," McDonnell took a ferocious bite from the chicken leg, then tossed it aside. "Let me teach them!"
"My, my, McDonnell, how gracious you have suddenly become," Sulyvan observed with a wry grimace. "Please, do not let me delay you from rejoining your pilgrimage."
"It can wait. This is a rare opportunity, isn't it? Priests of the old ways coming to learn the new! How can such a clever fellow like yourself pass up such a blessing?"
Sulyvahn regarded McDonnell, saw the naked ambition in his eyes, then turned to Royce. "I accept you into my flock, Royce. I accept you as new children of the Deep, should your faith prove true. If not …" He swept his hand out into the wilderness beyond the camp. "We must cast out the faithless, lest my people become corrupted."
"Thank you, Sulyvahn," Royce bowed.
Sulyvahn's voice turned hard. "From now on, you shall address me as Master or not at all. I am the Voice of the Prophet," he added, giving a meaningful glance in McDonnell's direction. "To honor me is to honor the Prophet.
McDonnell glowered, but Royce and his fellow priests acquiesced. As they were led away by Sulyvahn's servants to settle into the camp, the cleric caught Sulyvahn by the arm.
"Aldrich knows your heart, Sulyvahn," he whispered in a harsh tone. "These sheep are deceived, but he is not. Nor am I."
"I fail to understand, McDonnell. I am one of Aldrich's faithful. Better that you go to Royce and begin his instruction then see shadows where there are none."
Sulyvahn relished the sight of McDonnell's surprise.
"I?"
"Of course. That is what you asked for, was it not? Go forth, McDonnell. Convert your wayward brethren to the ways of our master Aldrich."
McDonnell strained his face trying to sort out Sulyvahn's intentions. The sorcerer gave him no time to do so and turned on his heel to return to his tent.
Many weeks passed. Some in the camp grumbled that they no longer traveled the road spreading the teachings of the Deep, but none dared bring their complaints before Sulyvahn directly. The Voice of the Deep, for his part, was content to allow McDonnell to instruct the priests and other camp followers with his own harsh methods.
Sulyvahn found McDonnell's teaching to be instructive in more ways than one. He not only gained more insight into the so-called "pure" teachings of Aldrich, but also perceived much of what had transpired in the Boreal Valley since his own departure. Aldrich had grown bolder and crueler in his zeal. Cannibalism was not only embraced in the valley, but enforced. The seer had also crafted new sorceries that McDonnell zealously guarded and used for purposes of instruction and punishment. Only the deeply initiated would share in such power, he claimed.
And while the fat man was charismatic, in his way, he was not terribly clever. Sulyvahn dispatched one of his most trusted minions to sneak into McDonnell's tent over a period of five nights and steal away the scrolls containing these spells. He transcribed them, then each night had the scrolls returned to McDonnell without his knowledge. And he set to understanding and learning these new sorceries of the Deep.
Most importantly, he strove always to treat Royce as something between an honored guest and a stray hound taken in. The sudden shifts between hospitality and harsh rebuke set Royce on edge, always uncertain in Sulyvahn's presence. Royce found greater camaraderie with McDonnell as a result. It was clear that the two had been old friends once, and now that they had bridged the schism that once separated them, they became friends again. Royce was an eager pupil. He craved approval and vindication. He was quick to agree with McDonnell in all that the fat man said and did. He would follow where the other led.
Royce was a puzzle easily deciphered. McDonnell proved more troublesome. He was zealous for his master, and therein lay the problem. McDonnell was loyal first and foremost to Aldrich. His teachings clashed with Sulyvahn's, and only through elaborate twistings of logic was the sorcerer able to reconcile their two increasingly divergent doctrines when making his own sermons. In this he was greatly assisted by his followers' faith in himself. They rarely questioned his words. But McDonnell questioned him constantly. Sulyvahn knew he must put the cleric his place once and for all.
He found his opportunity one day when he saw McDonnell beating a young novice with a staff for one transgression or another.
"Foolish boy!" the cleric roared. "You are a weakling! You praise the Deep, but you deny its supremacy in all things!"
The novice wept and swore his remorse, but McDonnell continued his assault.
Sulyvahn came up behind McDonnell and grabbed the staff. He tore it out of the cleric's hand with contemptuous ease.
"What goes on here?"
"This simpering fool ran away from the sanctioned meal! He wept at the sight of it!"
"You mean he ran from devouring human flesh?"
McDonnell had made some strides in introducing the eating of human meat into the camp. His zeal and rhetoric were inspirational, even in so grim a task as the "duty" to devour the flesh of man and so emulate the Deep's consumption of human souls. Or so Aldrich taught. Sulyvahn had permitted it inasmuch as McDonnell had found great difficulty in actually acquiring the meat without incurring a rebellion. A few had recently died of sickness, and the cleric had taken their corpses.
"You will cease your attack, McDonnell. You will not raise a hand against anyone in this camp ever again."
"I am a companion of the Prophet. I do what is right and necessary."
"And I am the Voice of the Deep," Sulyvahn proclaimed in a loud voice. "When I speak, it is the Prophet's words I speak."
"Lies!" McDonnell roared.
The ears of the camp were upon them now. The gauntlet was thrown.
"You doubt me?"
McDonnell bared his teeth like a dog. "You have gone astray, Sulyvahn. You must receive proper correction."
"So be it. Let the Deep judge who is right."
McDonnell pulled out a gnarled, crooked stick from his robes – his catalyst. Sulyvahn revealed a wand of polished spruce.
McDonnell raised his catalyst and cast forth a sorcery of the Deep. Globes of pitch darkness erupted from the catalyst and homed in on Sulyvahn. The sorcerer evaded them by dashing away. The globes turned as they tracked his position. He knelt and rolled forward, beneath the globes. They missed him and dissipated.
McDonnell prepared another spell. Sulyvahn beat him to the punch and summoned forth his own magic. Misty, black tendrils whipped toward McDonnell and ensnared him. In his surprise, the cleric dropped his catalyst.
"The Prophet's spells!" he gasped. "How?"
Sulyvahn replied with a knowing smile and strode toward McDonnell. He kicked the cleric in the chest and knocked him down. The tendrils vanished as the spell ran its course. In two swift movements, Sulyvahn had McDonnell on his chest and pinned to the ground. His knee dug into the small of the fat man's back, one hand gripped the man's shoulder and the other his forearm. McDonnell's other arm was trapped beneath his own bulk.
"The lesson is ended," Sulyvahn proclaimed. In a lower voice, he said to McDonnell. "Continue to struggle, and I will snap your arm in two." He twisted the cleric's arm for emphasis. McDonnell groaned in pain. "This is the way of the Deep, is it not?" the sorcerer continued. "The weak fall to the strong. This is the natural order."
"Finish it," McDonnell seethed.
"You will live, McDonnell, because I permit it. By my leave, you rise unharmed. Do you understand?"
McDonnell grunted his assent.
"Get up." Sulyvahn released his grip and backed away. McDonnell hoisted himself to his feet, smoothed out his robes, and looked at Sulyvahn.
In full sight of the crowd of followers that had formed, McDonnell slowly and awkwardly bowed before Sulyvahn.
"The Deep has made known its will," Sulyvhan announced. "Let there be unity among us. And let the children of the Deep work as one toward the world's final reckoning."
Royce entered Sulyvahn's tent.
"You summoned me, Master?"
Sulyvahn looked up from the tome he was reading. "This is most enlightening knowledge, deacon. How did you obtain it?"
"I took it from the cathedral's archives when I and my brothers departed."
"You stole it, in other words."
Royce shrugged indifferently.
"Strange, that the Way of White would have such knowledge of the Deep."
"Words of caution. Some books contain more than words. Certain members of our covenant took liberties with the volumes. Adding their own insights and observations. Some included parables of the Prophet Aldrich."
"And there are more like this in the Cathedral of the Allfather?"
"Yes, Master."
Sulyvahn looked down at the book. Its pages were crinkled and ragged, testifying to its great age. He wondered how long the words of the Deep had existed, for such an old book to hold information regarding it. This text must be at least a century old.
But how old did that make Aldrich? Was he not the first to preach the Deep? Certainly, humans could live to a century or more, under the right circumstances, but then Aldrich should be decrepit, his features should reflect his ancient age.
He shook his head slowly. A mystery for another time. He had more immediate matters at hand.
"How many would you say remain in the cathedral who are willing to bow to the Deep?" he asked Royce.
Royce thought for a moment. "Besides my faction here in the camp, there are perhaps forty remaining on the cathedral grounds. Of them," he pursed his lips. "Perhaps ten or twelve have expressed their sympathies for the true faith."
"So, they might convert if given the opportunity."
"Indeed. In fact, Master, I am sure of it."
"But not Gregory?"
"Oh, no. The archdeacon is staunch in his own ways. He would never turn."
Sulyvahn nodded, having made his decision. "Gather your followers. And find Rathe. Tell him to gather up fifty of my knights. It is time we turn our minds again to performing good works."
Sulyvahn, McDonnell, Royce and his followers, and fifty of Sulyvahn's knights marched on the cathedral. The two guards posted at the doors were easily dispatched. The small army entered the chapel hall. The surprised clerics tending the chapel hardly had time to voice their indignity before being cut down.
Sulyvahn turned to Royce and McDonnell. "Find the sympathizers and bring them here to the chapel. Be quick about it." He then gave orders to his knights. "Ten of you will accompany them. The rest of you, round up the remaining priests. Bring them outside the cathedral."
"What of the cathedral's knights?" one of them asked.
"If they resist, they die. If they lay down their arms, take them captive. Their worthiness will be tested later."
The clerics and knights did as they were told. They spread throughout the cathedral and overcame its defenders. The cathedral knights mounted a valiant resistance, but it was uncoordinated and their numbers were diffused throughout the building. They fell one by one, until it was a certainty that the cathedral would fall. Then the survivors tossed down their swords and begged for mercy. They were dragged outside and put in chains.
Sulyvahn strode through the halls, seeking one priest in particular.
As he passed through a small library, he was suddenly knocked to his knees by some form of magic. He saw a disc of white light fly by his head and hover in the air before him. He put a hand to his shoulder and recognized that the cloth and skin was sliced open. No sooner had he recognized this, then the disc rebounded back toward him. He dodged and turned to face his attacker.
The deacon called Galen retrieved the disc, which absorbed into his right hand. "By the Allfather and the White," he roared, "you will die for your trespasses, blasphemer!"
"Forgive me, I must have forgotten to knock," Sulyvahn sneered.
He rushed toward Galen with greatsword ready to cleave him head to groin. Galen raised his hand. A reverberating force impacted Sulyvahn and caused him to stumble back. The shockwave had caught him unawares.
Sulyvahn pulled out his catalyst and summoned forth the black souls of the Deep to rise and strike down the priest. The misty globes manifested and homed in on Galen. The cleric quickly went on the defensive. He erected a barrier that blocked the Deep souls and scattered them into nothingness.
Before Galen could prepare a new miracle, Sulyvahn closed the gap between them and swung his blade. Galen's arm fell limply to the ground.
"No …" Galen breathed as he looked down at his severed limb.
The next swing removed his head.
Sulyvahn pressed on. He soon passed through a threshold and found himself in a cavernous hall with vaulted ceilings. Great tapestries of symbols and figures unknown and no doubt long forgotten hung on the walls. Soon, they would all burn and the Way of White would be purged from this land.
At the other end of the hall, flanked by two cathedral knights, stood Archdeacon Gregory. He made no attempt to flee as Sulyvahn approached.
"And so it comes to this," Gregory said. "Violence begets violence. Evil begets destruction. It is all that your ways can accomplish."
"I will rebuild a new kingdom on the ashes of this place. Your faith will fade. My truth will endure always."
"Thus speaks every tyrant in history."
"I am no tyrant. I am the Voice of the Deep."
Gregory shook his head. "You are a fool. All the more that you are blind to your own foolishness."
"Silence. Your name will be blotted out of history. You will be as nothing."
"Then I will live only in your memories, tyrant. Come, let us make this moment memorable."
The two cathedral knights charged. Sulyvahn danced around their attacks with light movements, parrying and nicking their armor, seeking the moment for the killing blows. But something strange happened. His movements suddenly became sluggish, his legs were as heavy as iron bars. The two warriors got the better of him and pelted him with relentless blows. Sulyvahn was forced onto the defensive as he tried to regain the upper hand.
He realized what was happening. Gregory had cast a spell that somehow reduced his agility. He was like a slug fighting two hopping frogs. Furious, he reached for his catalyst. He summoned a hail of frost that enveloped one of the knights. The warrior fell back, shouting out in surprise and pain as the cold seeped through the openings in his armor.
To the other, Sulyvahn projected the Deep's tendrils of shadows to ensnare him. He lashed out and sliced through the dark tendrils to cut into the knight's leg. The knight fell to one knee, but managed to block Sulyvahn's follow-up blow and push him back through sheer brawn. But Sulyvahn felt the slowness fading from his limbs. He regained his usual dexterity in time to swivel around and parry an attack from the other knight, who pressed his assault even though his armor was coated in frost and blood leaked from the joints.
But before his very eyes, as he prepared for a final pass to kill his two opponents, their wounds knitted themselves before his very eyes. The knight with the wounded leg stood up. The other's bleeding stopped. Again, Sulyvahn glanced at Gregory, safely behind the two knights, and saw him casting some manner of healing magic.
Enough of this.
Sulyvahn conjured the power of the Profane Flame within his greatsword. It was engulfed in searing fire. The blade swung once. A sword clattered to the ground, cut in half. He swung again. A knight fell to the ground, his leg severed at the hip. He swung a third time. The other knight fell choking on his own blood, his breastplate falling away to reveal his innards oozing out.
Sulyvahn circled the dying knights, his eyes fixed on Gregory, daring the man to summon a miracle that could heal such grievous wounds. He waited until the last death rattled had ended. He crossed over the two corpses and approached Gregory.
Gregory released a shockwave that knocked Sulyvahn back. The sorcerer silently cursed his own carelessness.
"No more tricks," he hissed.
Gregory was panting heavily. The toll of the magic was taking effect. "No. No more."
"Do you beseech me for mercy?"
"No. I see that my end is nigh."
What a pitiable figure Gregory was now, drained of his strength, deprived of his authority and power by his better.
Sulyvahn struck him with the hilt of his greatsword. The man sprawled out on the ground, bleeding profusely from his head.
"You have lost," Sulyvahn said. "Where is your faith? Where are your gods?"
"If they strode into this very chamber now, would you relent?" Gregory laughed softly. "Would you repent and convert?" He shook his head. "You are a child, Sulyvahn. You take what pleases you, and spurn what upsets you."
"I take what is mine by right."
He jabbed the tip of his blade into Gregory's belly. The old man groaned in agony.
"Confess that you were wrong. That you are just a wretched old man clinging to fantasies."
"No."
"Confess!"
Sulyvahn dug the blade in deeper.
"I cannot …" Gregory gasped. "I will die by the convictions that have guided my life."
"They are wrong. You are wrong! Admit it! I am superior! Say it!"
This pathetic man, and his pathetic beliefs, infuriated Sulyvahn beyond his own ability to comprehend. He hated him. In that moment, he hated him more than anything he had ever known.
"What will you die by, Sulyvahn?" Gregory said in a feeble voice. "What do you believe?"
"The Deep will prevail."
"Ha, ha. We both know that is a lie."
"It will."
"No. The lie is that you believe in it. I pity you, Sulyvahn. Slave to greed, thrall to ambition."
"No." Sulyvahn withdrew the sword with a wet sound of metal on flesh. "No." he growled again. "No!"
He brough the sword down, again and again. He hacked and hacked with maddened fury, slicing away Gregory's face, his limbs, his flesh until all that was left was a bloody tangle of organs and tendons and ripped skin smeared across the stone floor. And through it all, he screamed his denial of the archdeacon's last words.
"No," he gasped at last. "You know nothing of me."
He turned and walked away from the mess. He told himself that he had triumphed this day. Today was a great victory for the Deep, and more importantly, for himself.
It must be true. He would ensure that everyone knew it was true.
Sulyvahn and his knights rode away from the cathedral as dawn rose the next day. The corpses of the dead were buried in a mass grave on the hill. The converted priests and knights would remain behind, along with McDonnell and Royce.
Archdeacons McDonnell and Royce. Eager and zealous for their faith, ready to spread the word of the Deep to all. They would transcribe the tomes of secret knowledge held in the cathedral vaults and spread copies across Lordran. Already, missionaries were readying themselves for journeys to distant lands to spread the teachings of Aldrich. And of Sulyvahn.
In his saddlebags, Sulyvahn brought with him several of those same tomes. They would teach him much. And most importantly, they possessed knowledge gleaned by the Way of White that not even Aldrich knew. The Deep had many secrets, and Gregory and his minions' perspectives offered them insights that a cannibal outcast could never possess. Ironic, really, that Aldrich's attempts to convert his own church had result not only in his own exile, but equipped his servant Sulyvahn with greater power than he himself possessed.
The Voice of the Deep had much work to do. And much to accomplish, if he were to follow through on his words to Gregory.
He had a kingdom to build.