XIV. Benediction
The earliest records of the Alexine Walls from outside of Sarfan come from Zferot of Benar, called Severin the Venerable, who wrote of his travels to the easternmost fringes of the Plains around the same time the Walls were completed. His compendium of travels, the Isdorio Vorealio, famously narrates his visitation to early Sarfan with his companion, Vaslava of the Yaral.
His record, though fragmented, attests to the wonder the observers of Sarfan felt when they first saw the Alexine Walls, the likes of which had never been seen before anywhere in the Plains, and it is certain that these Walls were, upon their completion, named marvels of the world.
The two of them walk together, Alexius strolling slowly with Sev the Cleric, who hobbles deliberately and carefully. In one hand the old Cleric holds a bell that swings gently in the breeze of the Plains; in the other he gingerly holds a bottle of green and blue matter that shimmers and glows faintly. "Bottle of enchanting," he calls it, and only brings it out on the most solemn of holy days. Whatever's inside twists and fluctuates.
Sev insisted on personally blessing all four of the gates ("It's only right to abide by the old rites, they did it for the Ajor and the smithies, it's only proper..."), and in the end, Alexius volunteered to accompany the old man in circumambulating the Walls. So here he is, holding out a ragged book of hymns for the aging Cleric, pacing delicately around the vaulting stone buttresses. They've been walking for half an hour—Sarfan is great and the Cleric sluggish—but Alexius doesn't mind. It gives him time to inspect the village's defenses. And to think.
"It's a shame, you know," Sev says, "a damn shame that none of the young folk want... want to participate in the rites—the old rites." He stops and looks to the sky. "When I was a child, Alexius, when I was small, every day would be—be filled with prayers, prayers to the Fathers and to Heaven... no one has time for it these days..." He sighs deeply. "Just old Sev, rambling about the ancestors again... but here we are," he says brightly as they approach the Southern Gate, its entrance still blocked off with cobblestones. The old Cleric sets down his bell and gently holds his bottle.
"Page... forty-seven, Alexius, if you will—yes, that's it, let us pray the Madjeures e Ceilam... yes... ahem." Alexius holds the book steady as Sev, slightly swaying, begins to chant in the ancient Liturgical Tongue, high-pitched and melodic:
"Medures bonteike hnosme, thfeire a malor hnosme, e hlebere tersame uostrame..."
As Sev chants, Alexius's eyes wander to the distance, and he squints: two figures approaching from the southern horizon, on horseback. He frowns; none of the villagers have left Sarfan since the Walls were finished. They must be from one of the other villages. He starts warily, and feels for the handle of his axe—just in case.
"... kehilom da hnosis akyumes sindemes tenemes nyn e i sedempsme, fiit uelontar tene i medur sedemps..."
"We have visitors, Sev," Alexius says. The Cleric pauses and looks behind him, squints, nods. "So it would seem. Have you bread and emeralds?" Alexius says yes, and Sev nods again. "Gift them. We'll finish the benedictions after we greet our visitors."
The two of them stand in silence and watch as the strangers approach, slowing their horses to a trot. Their clothes are totally new to Alexius: one of them rides on a white horse and wears a tan tunic, the color of sand; the other rides a black horse and sports a dull green robe. Their headdresses are like soft caps with threads of orange hanging over their eyes, and they stare down from their horses imperiously. Their expressions are difficult to gauge.
"Ver fespra," Sev says slowly. After a pause, the one with the tunic responds with a heavy accent, unlike any Alexius has heard before: "Bel vespar." Clearly, this man is from a far-off land. Carefully, Alexius ventures: "Where do you come from?"
"We come from Benar," the stranger replies. "Far away. Very very south and east. We come long way." And, almost as an afterthought, he points to himself and says, "Zferot." Pointing to his companion, he says, "Vaslava," and the green-robed man bows slightly.
"I am Sev son of Saro Toja, Cleric of Sarfan," the old man says, also bowing slightly. But neither Zferot nor Vaslava look at him. Instead, they stare directly into Alexius's eyes, their faces expressionless and still, almost stern. Hesitating, Alexius speaks up: "And I am—"
"Alexi," Vaslava says. "Yes. Of you we have heard much." Alexius freezes. He doesn't like where this is going at all. "How did you know my name?" he asks the strangers. His hand aches to drift back to the handle of his axe. He stills it: they might not be dangerous, he thinks to himself. But he can't help his eyes darting between the two strangers. Keep still goddammit.
The tan-tunic one, Zferot, steadies his horse with a hand and raises the other. "You are... well-spoken of, ah, sir. The east people, they say your name very very much. They speak of this—" he waves his hand vaguely at the great Walls "—this, ah, town very much too. Zeravan, yes?"
"Sarfan." Alexius swallows his nerves. "If you want, sirs, we have here bread and emeralds for you, and water for your horses: come, let us go into the town..."
Vaslava holds up his hand: "No need," he says imperiously, and Alexius feels a flash of stifled annoyance. "Here we do not stop. Further onto Hayn." He comes closer to Sev and Alexius, speaking as he frowns. "You are... leader of, ah, Sarfan, yes?"
Alexius nods. "And you built, ah, this?" Zferot asks, waving vaguely at the Walls again.
He nods, then shakes his head. "Not me, no. Every—everyone in the village helped, I mean. Really they built it, not me..." he trails off, still unnerved by the penetrating gazes of these two strangers. Sev the Cleric speaks up: "Magnificent, are they not, sirs?"
For the first time the two strangers look down at Sev for a fleeting second before looking up at the crenelated parapets of the gate, squinting. "Magnificent," Zferot repeats slowly. He nods. "Yes." He looks back to Alexius. "Many stories with you, sir. A stranger comes to Sarfan, kills many vauasa of the night, builds these. And this is you? You... lead the, ah, building of these?"
Slowly Alexius nods again. "I lead them, yes."
Vaslava scratches his nose. "Why?" he asks.
Alexius stares at the two of them. "Why?" he repeats.
Zferot nods. "Yes." His horse whines and he adjusts his reins. "Why did you build this?"
Alexius sweats in his iron armor and the horse whines again. He looks very carefully at Zferot, who stares back almost absently. Except he isn't absent at all; the stranger's eyes are glinting with... with something. "Because," Alexius says slowly, "we need to defend ourselves from our enemies." Hurriedly he adds, "Our enemies, sirs, wish to attack us every day, they have already done so, and we merely..."
Vaslava holds up a hand—there's definitely a frown on his face now—and interrupts him. "Three days ago lusinocti—they, ah, invade and kill and steal from many villages, you know them, yes?—three days ago they come to Kyronol, near Mer and Comu, and kill every man and child there. Of this you know?"
Sev glances at Alexius and he shakes his head slowly. "No, sir," he replies, steadying his voice. "No, I didn't know that."
Zferot adjusts his hat and says, "They burn every house and farm until nothing left. And why?"
The strangers look carefully at Alexius. "I don't know, sir." Zferot shoots him a glance of something—is it pity or disappointment?—and says, "A moon ago they build new Adzor, ah, church. For this all of them are dead." He glances behind him, as if expecting to see a Pillager, and shudders very slightly. When he turns back to Alexius, his face is severe and grim.
"You are very lucky man, Alexius," he says slowly. "But hear me now, no luck is forever. Do you understand? When lusinocti come no man stops them. Nothing can stop them. Best to keep head low and, ah, unnoticed, but..." He gestures to the Walls and shakes his head slightly. "Already late."
"And what would you have us do, sir?" Alexius says through gritted teeth. Zferot shrugs: "Leave now. Or pray lusinocti do not see you. But leave now and you live."
Vaslava nods. Alexius takes a deep breath and struggles not to strangle their horses. "You do not think we can defend ourselves. But we can. These Walls—" he points at the great gate "—they will defend us surely. They block arrows and zombies alike, I am certain of this. Why, sirs, do you doubt?"
Zferot glances to his companion before looking quizzically at Alexius, almost as if amused. "No man," he says, "has done this before. You think you can succeed?"
Alexius nods and his eyes look upwards defiantly. "Have some faith."
"Faith." Zferot rolls the word in his mouth and looks again at the parapets of the Walls. He mutters something to Vaslava, who merely shakes his head and guides his horse west, leaving on a trot. Zferot sighs and looks back down. "Heaven smiles on you, Alexius." And, drawing in closer, he says: "I have warned you."
He moves his horse to his companion with a start and the two strangers gallop into the west. Alexius stares at their shapes receding into the distance. His anger recedes: a cold ball has settled in his stomach and his ears are numb. As if from a distance, he hears the voice of Sev the Cleric: "Pay them no heed, Alexius, they are southern fools. The Walls will protect us, I'm sure of it." The old Cleric smiles and returns to his chants. Alexius nods vaguely. He stares into the distance and feels a deep unease settle in his bones. All of a sudden he feels very small.
"... pari gradiame perei hnostrai e pari nom sinde kehilomi makhai, so fiit." Sev rings the bell once, twice, three times. The old man throws the bottle of enchanting onto the base of the gate and glass shatters and glowing particles swirl and meander on the grass. In the distance, the first dark storm clouds begin to assemble.