Vol 6, Chapter 19

◆ Grand Temple, First Prince's POV. ◆

Faith and Dogma. That was what allowed the first theocrats to carry fragments of true history through the millennia.
At least… its remnants.

Generation after generation, they simply survived. The Empire meticulously erased all traces: not only archives, but everyone who knew more than permitted. Mages who suddenly realized that things had gone awry, that they had trapped themselves within their own cage, sought to eliminate anyone who had discovered the truth. And they nearly succeeded.

Much knowledge was lost. Cut off from their gods, the servants of faith suffered defeat. They hid among common folk, who themselves were nothing but resources for the inhuman Magocracy. They hid and perished alongside them, taking knowledge to the grave.

The cults were fragmented and scattered. Priests of different gods had never trusted one another, and when the Empire began hunting them down, their extinction became inevitable.

But then, a miracle. A figure appeared, one who managed to unite them all; a figure who reminded them of the times when gods were not known by names, when God was One and Unfathomable.

No one knew who he was: prophet, saint, or incarnation of the One. But fact remained: his god performed miracles, though He demanded a price. He shared His power generously, so desperately needed in the face of the Empire. And He achieved His goal. Some of the priests converted to a new faith, and they united.

The new gods came to be called the old.
For the old cults had perished, but a new one was born.

The Theocracy survived in the shadows for another thousand years, like a flea on a dog's back. Faith spread among peasants, far from the eyes of arrogant mages.

Faith that this world was doomed.

Year by year, the Empire grew feeble. Mages weakened, uprisings grew more frequent, while the theocrats' strength increased, waiting only for the right moment.

And it came.

The Age of Discord: the greatest civil war within the Empire. This was no ordinary rebellion launched by an ambitious talent with more magic than sense.

No. Among the rebels there was no great mage whose gift could singlehandedly change the course of battle.

There were simply many rebels.

Metal mages made lavish promises: that the tribute of lives would end, that human experiments would be banned forevermore. No village would again be forced to send victims into ritual circles. They swore that the ungifted would not be silent resources but servants, and that warriors would not remain servants but become equals.

This struck the greatest blow to the Theocracy since its founding. For the first time, the sacrificial faith in the One faced an alternative, and peasants had hope not only of blissful afterlife, but of life itself.

The Council debated for months, unable to decide.

Many bishops wished to wait until the uprising was crushed.

But the Pontiff made his choice, and all were forced to obey. Malicious tongues whispered that his decision was guided by blood, not duty.

The Theocracy struck, and the Empire was finally broken apart. The Age of Discord ended with the creation of three new states. The Pontiff's decision proved right.

Symbolically, after so many years, a member of House Dorn once again became Pontiff.

The faithful gathered at the temple from all over the land. They knew what awaited them, yet still they came. The green trees planted after the ascension of the previous Pontiff rustled carelessly. Unlike the people, they suspected nothing.

Now, every pilgrim who dares to climb the mountain-temple receives not a stone at the foot, but a ritual dagger.

The pilgrims' path was littered with bodies. The higher the survivors climbed, the more corpses they found. The summit of the holy temple was no easy stroll, even when a heavy stone block no longer bent their backs. Reaching it took more than a day.

And the higher they rose, the more unbearable it became.

The base was long lost in the clouds. The cold wind pierced their rags, air grew thinner; and still the tower reached skyward, as far as the eye could see. What was once wide now seemed a stone needle piercing the heavens.

The stone steps narrowed, no longer wide enough to lie down and rest. At the same time the climb grew lighter.

In exhausted, beaten muscles new strength arose, and in the mind… a call.

The summit awaited. The One awaited.

The believer no longer noticed how he overcame the final steps of the temple spire. He did not notice that there was almost no oxygen left to breathe, nor that his limbs had turned blue from the cold. He did not even notice that he had reached his goal, standing on a tiny platform at the very top of the Temple.

He noticed nothing but what was above.

The fabric of space rippled. The blue sky wavered, and beyond the tiny rifts was nothing. Through the dome shielding the world passed only snowflakes and a hunger that could never be sated.

But the pilgrim tried. With numb hands he drew the dagger…

A second later, nothing remained on the platform. Only a lonely dagger fell through the clouds, down to the foot of the Temple. Another human had become One.

The cracks widened. The critical mass had been reached.

The blue sky turned black. The blessed stones groaned with cold. An unseen impulse rushed downward.

Pilgrims who had not yet ascended fell dead as withered mummies. Their daggers crumbled to rust, their clothing disintegrated to dust in an instant. The wave reached the mountain's base in a heartbeat.

Trees withered. Branches snapped and crumbled. Grass shriveled and froze. Birds dropped from the air.

The ring spread, draining life from everything in its path. A kilometer, then two. Nothing seemed able to halt it.

But all ends in a single instant. The gap in the sky closed. Only a faint breeze remained. Frozen grass chimed thinly. The rags of the dead pilgrim stirred. The wind moved unnaturally, upward, as though trying to return home, into the void.

It gathered atop the temple, denser and denser, until it became a black drop. For several seconds it quivered, hung in the air, and finally fell. And it fell for a very, very long time…

The Prince stared upward without blinking. A pale point of light in the sky was so distant it seemed invisible. The glow descending from above was so faint it could illuminate nothing but itself. Yet even so, once the ceremony ended, the opening at the temple's summit would be sealed again with a slab, and everything inside would return to utter darkness.

Darkness, but no longer emptiness. Every corner of the temple resonated with prayers, litanies, and invocations. On this day, all who lived nearby gathered within. All those who did not deem themselves worthy to sacrifice their lives for the ascension of the new Pontiff.

The ceremony had already lasted many hours, but the former prince had not lost concentration for a single moment.

The blue sky in the distance gave way to black. Along the temple's outer walls the wind howled.

A drop of absolute void fell upon his chest, yet it did not shatter into spray but seeped in, as if it were not material at all. The body of the future Pontiff convulsed in agony. His skin turned pale and shriveled, muscles contracted, pulling tendons taut to the limit. Bones cracked.

After several seconds of torment, the Prince froze as a bloodless mummy, barely distinguishable from the pilgrims left outside.

The bishops who surrounded the body, never interrupting their litany, lifted the massive lid of the altar upon which the Prince had lain and shifted it aside. The revealed cavity and the skeleton within made clear that the altar itself was a stone sarcophagus.

The council members reverently gathered the bones of the previous Pontiff. At first glance they seemed ordinary, human… if one ignored the teeth. Imbued with the void, they would become relics of war for the Theocracy, as had the bones of every saint before him.

The niche was emptied. The remains of the former Pontiff were placed with great reverence into reliquaries. The dried body of the First Prince was lowered into the niche, and the stone lid of the sarcophagus was sealed shut. Now everything depended on the faith of the candidate. Twelve days and nights the service would last, at the end of which the Pontiff would either resurrect, or… his bones too would become relics, though less sacred. With reverence they would be passed to the carvers and made into church implements.

The High Priest had no doubt he would succeed. The First had always been known not only for piety but for a sincere desire to become One, a quality even the bishops often lacked. The High Priest himself did not possess it. He could honestly admit to himself that he sought the Holy Throne not for closeness to God, but for… other advantages.

Unlike the Pontiff, who ascended to a new stage of existence, the bishops remained ordinary mortals.

Finishing their litany, the council members in turn sprinkled the sarcophagus with blood and departed, each to his own temple. There they would continue their service throughout the twelve days.

The candles went out. Only a faint scattered light picked the bloodied sarcophagus out of the total darkness.

But this time, someone was in the dark.

Silently, a first figure approached the sarcophagus and knelt. Behind him came another. And another. The massive armor of the gathering made no sound at all.

Among the people there was a belief that the armor of the High Inquisitors was a sign that they no longer needed to shed their blood to draw the One's attention.

The truth was that they no longer had any blood. They had nothing left to spill.

If the ceremony went awry, if from the sarcophagus emerged a ghoul whose mind had been devoured by hunger, they would stop it. Unlike the bishops, the ghoul would not see kindred creatures as prey.

Raised personally by the Pontiffs, the High Inquisitors were weaker. But they were many.

Their nostrils flared at the scent of blood, yet that was the only thing that distinguished them from statues. All knelt motionless, their sacred hammers laid before them. Each was ready to fight. Though the chance of the Pontiff returning corrupted was small, it existed. It had happened once before, when they had not been prepared. That day, the Theocracy lost all its bishops and most of its Inquisitors. To kill one who was already dead had proven difficult, even for those who themselves were no longer entirely alive.

The body that was put down a second time, against tradition, was not kept in the Theocracy. As gifts, its bones were sent to faithful allies in the Kingdom. The weakened Theocracy in those days needed their support more than ever. Later, this decision was deemed a mistake, for the relics proved very powerful. Bit by bit, the bones returned to the Theocracy…

All but a fang and several other parts.

The vigil of the Inquisitors continued hour by hour, day by day.

Until it was broken by a sound. The lid of the sarcophagus shifted slightly, lifted, then fell back with a crash. Dust billowed in the air.

The nearest Inquisitors set aside their weapons, seized the lid, and pushed it open, unsealing the sarcophagus.

The Pontiff looked almost the same as before ascension. Only his unnaturally white skin and the movement of his jaw betraying discomfort marked his transformation. The risen one calmly swept his gaze over those gathered. Darkness was no longer an obstacle to him.

The Inquisitors bowed. There was no madness in his eyes, which meant the rite had succeeded.

"Your Holiness, we follow your will."

The Pontiff did not answer. He raised his eyes upward, to where the darkness no longer hindered his sight. For him the temple had ceased to be a mysterious, endless place that drove the weak of spirit insane. Now… now he saw all its flaws, no longer hidden by shadow. Misaligned blocks. Cracks. The mistakes of its creators.

Amusingly enough, that was exactly how he had come to perceive and understand Faith.

"At times, knowledge disappoints. The mind exalts the shadow of the unknown above the answers themselves," the new Pontiff said thoughtfully, his first words since rising.

But those assembled awaited his will, not his musings.

"Cut down the dead trees around the temple and, according to tradition, sow new ones."

"It will be done, Your Holiness," the Inquisitors struck their fists against their chests.

"And also, gather the faithful from across the land. Prepare them, for soon I shall declare a Crusade against the Capital. But before that, I wish to speak with my brother."

"We have a messenger in the Capital. We can send him to the Royal Palace with a request for an audience with the new King."

"No. I have nothing to say to the usurper. We will make him pay for his sins… I wish to speak personally with my Fourth brother."

****

The griffons of the First Duke threatened to become a serious problem. The defense of the aerostats could at best drive them off, and the blind zone left them far too vulnerable. Even a massive airship with circular gun coverage might not be able to repel a concentrated raid. One fire mage on a griffon was enough, and the flying colossus would fall blazing from the sky.

Of course, the First's relations with mages were poor, but who knew how long his principles would last once he realized the problems the aerostats caused him.

Anti-air was needed. Not a handful of weapons to scare off a small flock, but dozens upon dozens of guns spread across the entire front. Which meant ammunition in vast quantities. Chlorate powder was relatively acceptable… so long as it was used sparingly and with extreme care. But for mass use it was too dangerous and unreliable. Not when shells loaded with it would end up in less than professional hands. Not when the rounds might be dropped dozens of times on the way to the batteries.

TNT would be the perfect solution. It was insensitive to shocks. Incredibly convenient for military industry thanks to its ability to melt at a temperature lower than boiling water. There was only one small problem.

Toluene, from which it was produced. A fairly common substance, obtainable from petroleum, from coal, even from pine resin. But ideally, of course, one would use coal or oil…

"Hey!" I protested when my thoughts were interrupted by an open book shoved right under my nose.

"You promised to take a look once you were done with the train," Mira declared, her tail twitching angrily.

"Technically, I'm not done yet. This is just a prototype," I waved toward the table.

Mira closed the book and started examining the papers. After a few seconds, she chided me.

"Oh please, I've lived with you long enough to tell the difference between a locomotive and a shell!"

"Well… we'll mount a cannon on it to fight off griffons," I tried to wriggle out.

"That's not fair! You'll never finish it at this rate!"

"Look, I really haven't finished! Just because it runs doesn't mean anything. There's still so much to fix. You know how horribly the brakes work? And then Pit suggested enchanting the brake pads. In the end, the brake pads just ate the test wheels before our eyes!""

"I'll eat you if you don't keep your promises. Now confess, what are you working on?"

Sighing, I raised my hands in surrender.

"I'm thinking how to improve the remote detonator for shells, and the payload too. Air superiority means everything. I really don't have the time, sorry."

"Why not just use fuses or match tubes like before?"

"It's a long explanation. Just trust me: I wouldn't waste time on this if there was another way."

She sighed, set the book aside, and sat down on my lap.

"And when you finish this, will you finally be free?"

"Well… not quite. I absolutely have to start purifying cellulose. What comes out of the boilers is garbage, unusable for powder."

"And after that?"

"Well, if the First Duke decides to harvest before attacking, we'll have to rack our brains over a rotary line for cartridge production. If not… depends on how bad things get."

"Mehh…" she drawled.

"What can I do? Unless you just wanted…"

"Not only that, otherwise I'd have just waited for night." She picked the book back up from the table and showed it to me. "We've already finished with it. We sorted it out, translated the terms, extracted everything useful. These techniques, combined with alchemy, can turn an ordinary man into a warrior."

"Oh, well done. Why didn't you say so earlier? Why aren't we using them yet?"

The scorching look she gave me was enough of an answer.

"But there's a problem. Those who practice these methods will lose their afterlife. These techniques drain the soul for strength in the present, in exchange for nothingness afterward."

"Wait, then Alex?"

"Him too. I don't know if we should even keep this knowledge. Maybe we should just destroy it? If this falls into the wrong hands… I doubt the new master would be honest with his followers about the hidden cost. And by the time they found out, it would be too late."

"Hm. Glad to hear you're not considering becoming one of those masters who hides such things."

She shrugged. "That seems even worse than murder, to me."

"Perhaps… You know what, for now just hide it somewhere safe. Someday I'll decide what to do with it. But not today."

"What about Sir Trey?"

"Who?"

"He helped with translating the book. In fact, he's the one who compiled it into this complete manual." She waved it in front of me.

I thought about it, then waved my hand dismissively. "Hell if I know. I'll think about it later. I'm not going to kill him just to preserve a secret…"

A guard's whistle echoed through the stone corridor. Boots stomped.

"Emergency patient?" she guessed.

"No, if it were that they wouldn't raise such a racket through the whole lab," I said, rising from my chair and checking my revolver.

"Don't even think I'm staying here," the girl declared.

After a moment's hesitation, I handed her a second revolver.

In the underground corridors of the former chimerologist's lab, chaos reigned. Someone was running downstairs, the guards rushing upward.

No one knew what was happening, but that didn't stop them from preparing for battle.

Though the lab stood somewhat apart from Raikland, there weren't many guards. The Black Forest was walled off. From the rest of civilization, we were cut off by impassable mountains and a fortress plugging the bottleneck of the only pass.

Which meant the threat could only have come from the air.

Yet when I stepped outside, at first I didn't understand what the fuss was about.

The twilight sky showed no movement. And the soldiers weren't aiming their weapons skyward at all. They held in their sights a perfectly ordinary man, sitting on the ground and praying.

His tattered clothes suggested he was a peasant, not a warrior. His head was bowed, his clasped hands pale—likely from fear. Why had the guards considered him a threat at all?

"What's going on?" I asked the captain. In reply, he silently handed me a musket.

A musket twisted into a knot.

Finishing his prayer, the man rose from the ground and waved his hand.

"Good evening, brother. Shall we talk?"