Red-Stained Night (Solo)

[Christoph]

Prologue


1810th Year of Strength, mid autumn; just south of Archen.

Foul wind whispered through lifeless trees, spreading chill across a silent battlefield scarred by magic-blasted craters and littered with death. The setting sun glared down on the days’ butchery like a judging eye, and a bleak, crypt-like stillness enveloped the land. Cold, harsh, and dead: it was Archen, and for Nicholi Chzov, it was both his home and his shame.

As an Empowered Priests of the Ethereal Sway, Nicholi's oaths bound him to defend faith and kingdom against all threats, without and within. These were grim days for the church, despite Saint Denebriel’s glorious return. Civil war still gripped the nation and fiefdom after fiefdom declared against the rightful ascendancy of the church. The rebellion at the city of Archen, a strategically crucial Sway bastion, cost the struggling church dearly, militarily and in spirit. The rebels fought bitterly, giving no quarter and refusing to surrender, even in the face of superior numbers and the presence of three Empowered.

It hit Nicholi especially hard, as though his own family had betrayed him. He longed for his days on the frontier, fighting savage monsters and tribes in the wild instead of his own countrymen.

Only faith and devotion to his order kept him from losing heart, even as he fought and killed his own people. Empowered Priests were among the most loyal and elite Sway agents, fiercely conditioned for purity and strength of body, mind, and soul. For they alone were sanctioned to practice the arcane arts, trained to master to very voice of the gods. One could turn the tides in battle; in numbers, they change the course of wars. He was a weapon; what right had the weapon to rage against being wielded?

Nicholi, one of the most powerful Empowered in Salvar, proudly projected his order's image. He wore simple red and gold vestments beneath a white cloak. In his middle years, he looked both youthful and wise. He still kept his head completely shaved, as he had since his initiation. It helped him remember humility, to feel pride in glorifying the gods rather than himself.

At that moment though, he could not feel glory in anything; he felt only a heavy tugging at his soul and the sense that much work still awaited him. The mystery of Archen’s uprising needed unraveling. Something or someone had fomented heresy in his home city. Justice before rest. With a sigh, Chzov pulled his cloak tight and set out to reunite with the Sway forces, who had, judging by the smoke trails rising from the distant city, had already begun purging the city.

Something moved in his peripherals. Light, scraping footsteps broke the silence. He stopped sharp and scanned his surroundings, instinctively gripping his spear. The spears of the Empowered were always forged from solid iron. Beautifully crafted weapons engraved with calligraphic scriptures, they were the Order’s badge of office, representing both their power and the weight of their responsibility.

He heard footsteps again. A grey-clad figure peaked from behind a rock before quickly dashing away. Suspicion appears on swift legs, mused Chzov, sprinting after his mysterious visitor. They raced across the rugged battlefield, jumping over corpses and darting between boulders. He could have buffeted the man with wind or struck him down with lightning, but that would have needlessly wasted his strength. He was not so reliant on his magic.

Instead, Nicholi gave chase through the forest of rocks, keeping an even pace and waiting for his reckless prey to make a mistake. Whether due to dimming light, uneven ground, or careless haste, the hooded man stumbled. The Sway agent swooped in and swept out the stranger’s feet with his spear.

“Stand down in the name of the Sway!” Nicholi leveled his spear. His voice softened slightly. “The battle is over. There has been enough death today. Surrender now and you will be treated fairly.”

“Your church’s ‘fairness’ is torture and a public execution!” the traitor snarled, crawling away.

“And you would rather die on your back in the dirt?” Chzov sighed impatiently. “You have it on my honor that—” Then he felt it: a subtle stirring in the air, the tugging at the strings of reality. A sudden, mighty burst of wind hurled him into a boulder.

Warlock! Few were more reviled than those who blasphemed the voice of the gods.

With a pained grunt, Nicholi scrambled to his feet, struggling against intensifying gusts. Shards of ice filled the swirling wind, slicing his face like broken glass. He grinned wildly. Few knew just how much he reveled in such contests of arcane might and skill, let alone the chance to deliver a warlock to damnation.

In the holy tongue of High Salvic, Nicholi sang the Prayer of Gales, his words ringing with power. The wind itself answered his call and obeyed. With an exertion of will, he pushed back his foe’s assault. Icy whirlwinds spawned between them as they clashed. The warlock shouted desperately and rumbling thunder replied. The heathen wielded impressive power, but his crude lack of finesse made him seem a clumsy child compared to Chzov. And like any parent, he quickly tired of the game.

Eerily calm amidst raging wind, he wove his second spell from the Prayer of Sun and the Cant of the Lance. He pulled the sparse warmth from the earth and air, and as much from his body as he dared, and focused it into his spear until its engravings glowed orange. With a burst of will, he unleashed the gathered heat in a single, focused spike that pierced the relentless tide of wind and ice. The warlock faltered, and with a casual gesture, Nicholie unleashed an intense blast of kinetic force that slammed his foe onto the ground.

He darted forward and kicked the warlock in the chest as he tried to rise, and then pressed his spear against the heathen’s throat.

“Now, perhaps we can now discuss matters like civilized men.” He towered over his new captive. Even in weariness, he possessed an imposing presence. The stranger, however, remained defiantly silent. “Do you know who I am, warlock? No? I am Empowered Priest Nicholi Chzov. I serve under the famed witch hunter Heinrich Reichter.” He took a moment’s satisfaction from the fear and surprise in the man’s face. “Ah, yes. You know of him, at least. Now you understand. You can either speak to me, or sing for him.”

“What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice quavering. Warlocks, as any who covet power above all else, cower before those more powerful than themselves.

“Only information, and for that you are most fortunate.” For emphasis, he pressed his spear harder against the traitor’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. “The question should be obvious. Archen had remained loyal to the Sway for too long to have risen up on its own accord. Who sparked this rebellion?” The warlock hesitated, but Alexander did not need a spoken answer. He focused his will once again, weaving the threads of magic into a much different spell, one that delved into his captive’s thoughts. The traitor's mind tasted like old meat, but the Empowered persisted. Amidst a sea of fear and anger he glimpsed a caravan of strangers, hardened men and women. Tainted. Sorcerers. And he heard a single name.

“Elijah Belov,” Chzov whispered darkly, ominous comprehension dawning. The traitor’s eyes widened. “I believe Reichter will be most eager to speak with you.”

“No!” he cried, real panic in his voice. “I'll talk to you! You said--”

“‘Just as the heathen makes a mockery of the truth, so too does truth make a mockery of the heathen.’” With that, Chzov spoke but a single, powerful word and touched his captive's forehead. The warlock contorted and spat out a tortured howl before falling unconscious. He dragged the man to the encampment, trying to calm his tumultuous thoughts. The infamous rogue sorcerer Elijah Belov had come to Archen. The battle for its land was over, but the battle for its soul loomed still ahead. In the distance, smoke rose from what he had once thought a defeated city.