Chapter Twenty-Four: The Monastery of the Bloody Dawn

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Monastery of the Bloody Dawn

Tom took a deep breath and grasped Rosa’s hand as they made their way to the small gates at the back of Horizon.

He was nervous about the upcoming meeting, but grateful that he wouldn’t be the one doing the bulk of the negotiating. That task was for Tanya. Using her long range communication skill under Trade she would facilitate discussions directly between the Monastery and the Council of Wayrest.

Even if he wouldn’t be negotiating himself, Tom still couldn’t help but be a little intimidated. The Monastery of the Bloody Dawn had a far reaching reputation. The stories Darius had told him about it on their travels had only reinforced Tom’s preconceptions about the ancient, warlike place.

Rosa, for her part, seemed completely untroubled. She was positively beaming this morning, despite what must be a massive hangover. Finding her family safe and sound had relieved her of the enormous weight that had been hanging on her shoulders for months now. She squeezed Tom’s hand reassuringly.

Markus walked alongside Tom and Rosa, seemingly lost in thought. Rocco and Camilla walked ahead of them, talking quietly to each other. Rosa’s sisters, Lora, Talia and Zamia, had stayed home. Tanya walked ahead of the group, with a monk wearing peach-coloured robes.

The monk had turned up at the Raventos house early in the morning, just after sunrise. The unassuming fellow had politely informed them their presence was required at the Monastery. Less than half an hour later, and with much hangover-induced grumbling, they followed the monk towards the path to the monastery.

The gate at the back of the city was smaller, though it was still more than large enough for two wagons to pass abreast. It was set in the same style, tall and narrow, with a pointed arch at the top, though this gate had delicate etchings set in the stonework around it.

They passed through, and Tom was unsurprised to note the wall it was set in was much shorter and narrower than at the main gate. The walls didn’t encircle the city, instead running from one ridgeline to the other. This rear wall was less a matter of defence, and more a simple demarcation between the Monastery’s land and the city of Horizon proper. After all, if anything attacked Horizon from behind, they would need to go through the Monastery, and if anything managed that, the citizens of Horizon would have much bigger problems than their wall not being tall or thick enough.

The pathway up to the monastery was plain. Simple, hard packed dirt, trod by countless feet over many generations, paved the way. There were no cobbles, no flagstones, no waypoints or markers.

There was something though, marking the path. Tom began to notice them as they ascended.

Weapons.

They lay strewn about to either side of the pathway. Swords and hammers, maces and daggers, bows and spears. At first, there were only a handful here and there, but the amount sharply increased, and soon enough, the mountainside was littered with them.

Tom marvelled at the sheer amount of them. He caught exotic hooks and chains, weighted balls, sickles and scythes, darts and bladed hoops. Here and there he began to catch the telltale glow of enchantments with Hunter-Gatherer, and then the proportion of them increased too.

Rosa’s expression had grown sombre, respectful. “They are the weapons of every monk who has died fighting for the Bloody Dawn,” she murmured to him. “The faithful have laid their weapons here for centuries, recovered after battle. It is their most holy rite.”

Tom gaped. The sheer amount of weapons was staggering. He had thought of the Monastery as small, exclusive, though he supposed only the last must be true. The amount of active monks must be far, far higher than he had estimated.

As they drew closer to the Monastery itself, even more eclectic weapons were displayed. Tom saw enchanted silk handwraps. There was a living tree, with a small plaque resting in its roots. A boulder, inscribed with enchantments. An enormous gourd filled with water, and another, smaller, filled with blood. There was even a bowl full of some shiny metallic liquid. Tom guessed they must represent monks who fought exclusively with elemental Ideals as opposed to physical weapons.

The variety was astounding. How could the Monastery possibly survive with such an upkeep? How could they manage to train so many warriors, with such varied Ideals, to the elite level required by their faith? It was enough to make Tom’s head spin.

After several hours, they finally saw the first signs of the Monastery itself. There were no walls or towers, just a simple, small building manned by two monks.

Their escort nodded to them as they passed. The two monks in the guard building watched them all with wary eyes. Tom felt himself being weighed and categorised, along with everyone else in the party. He had the uncomfortable feeling that skills were being used on him.

They passed the small building, and not long after, more began to appear. They dotted the mountainside, each with their own little path running off to them, built long and low. Each of these outer buildings was still an exceptional example of architecture, however. Each of the low buildings still had porticos running along their fronts, chased with delicate, pointed arches.

The walls were all of the pink, peach and rose coloured marble Horizon was so famous for.  The roofs were white-tiled, likely to keep the heat of the punishing summers here off. Decorative tiles in black and yellow and white were laid in intricate patterns around the windows, the doors, and the main archways.

As they continued, the buildings grew more frequent, squeezed onto small shelves in the rocky mountain, tucked under cliffs, or perched atop them. Soon, they crowded closer and closer to the main pathway, and Tom reckoned they were in the Monastery proper.

As they had journeyed, they had seen the odd monk, here and there, walking up switchbacks or traversing narrow paths. The closer they came, the more frequent the monks became too, carrying water, hurrying with armfuls of documents, leading horses, bearing food -all the myriad tasks of daily life for such an organisation.

Now, the sounds of activity were prominent. Tom could hear the pinging of hammers ringing and echoing around the mountain from forges. A great many of them, if the din was any indication.

Hoofbeats drummed on rocky soil as monks ran horses about for exercise. Even more led horses to and fro between different stables and secluded mountain pastures. Tom saw monks carrying sacks of grain and great wooden poles laded with horseshoes, and saddles and tack.

Shouts and yells and grunts of exertion flowed from training yards where instructors pushed monks through all manner of gruelling exercises, barking at them as they completed martial forms, or watched silently as they duelled. Eclectic lights and sounds flashed and rang from half-covered halls and dusty arenas as the monks exerted themselves against each other.

The monks all wore variations on their red robes. Darius had explained that their faith extolled strength as the highest of virtues, as it was mainly through strength one could kill abominations for Goddess. There were, however, several other factors that played into a monk’s seniority.

Experience was chiefest among them, though the amount of mana-beasts a monk had slain was a large factor in that. Bravery was another, though sound judgement was also important. Ingenuity was also highly regarded, and, as in most organisations of any kind, good work ethic was key.

The Bloody Dawn was the legendary time in which the monks would be called to finally sweep all mana-beasts from Goddess’ sight. It was the singular goal they all worked towards: the extermination of any creatures that profaned the Goddess’ most holy gift of Ideals with the mockery of their crude mana abilities.

As such, each monk began with a mellow yellow robe, signifying morning. As they progressed, their robes became brighter, like the bright midday sun, then peach, then red, as they advanced towards dusk. Only the most senior, the most capable, and the most devout of monks were given the black, signifying nighttime.

It was these monks whose duty it was to lead their brothers and sisters through the Quiet Night. Darius did not like to speak of it, but Tom gathered it was a prophesied time in which mana-beasts would ravage the land in unheard of numbers.

Tom didn’t like to think about it. It felt too close to what was already happening.

Tom and Rosa tried not to stare as they were led through the monastery. The noise, the rush, the industry of it all was overwhelming. There was clearly much going on here. Tom had never been to the monastery before, obviously, but this did not seem like normal operations.

The Monastery of the Bloody Dawn was preparing for war.

Tom mused to himself as they walked, his thoughts in a whirl. How much help could Wayrest even provide? The amount of power the monastery could bring to bear surely eclipsed any aid they could send. Especially given the ragged state of the Guards and the Watch after the siege.

Watching the monks prepare for war made him a little angry, too. Wayrest had refused to do anything until the absolute last minute. Here, the monks were clearly throwing everything they had at the problem, and the threat of siege was not even imminent.

Was the Great Smith’s Pride that powerful? Was it simply a difference in religion? This was how Wayrest should have looked from the moment Tom and Val first returned with news of the infection.

It felt uncharitable, but Tom had to wonder if there was more going on here than met the eye. What had the monastery discovered with their forays and scouting about the orcs in the Grounds?

The strange auras on the orcs they’d killed would be highly problematic to face in any kind of numbers, let alone those orcs could muster. The Smith had mentioned brothers and sisters. Any other orcs with Ideals as powerful as the Smith’s would complicate matters exponentially.

With a sudden flash of insight, Tom was certain they had discovered one of them here. Suddenly, he was not sure whether the Monastery of the Bloody Dawn mobilising for war would be enough.

They needed answers. Desperately. If Horizon fell, there would be nothing stopping the infection here from menacing a weakened Wayrest.

Tom’s attention was snapped back to the present. Their escort had led them to a massive building, the only one Tom had seen so far built higher than a single story.

The size of it staggered him, taking up fully half of the huge plateau they had been navigating. Exceedingly intricate tilework detailed every arch and every recess. Minarets stood sentinel all along its length.

The doors to the great building stood open, foreboding. The monk led their group inside.

The interior of the building was formed seemingly of one, enormous, open space. Monks knelt in neat rows all around every wall. Every one of them was silent as the group made their way through the large open space in the middle of the hall, moving towards the only relief in the otherwise featureless space.

Two chairs, simply made and simply decorated, were raised just a foot from the floor on a small dais. Before them the chairs stood a man that Tom immediately pegged as the King of Horizon. He wore fine clothes, though they were by no means ostentatious. He looked nervous.

On the chairs sat the two most powerful people for hundreds of miles around. The air took on a predatory quality as they watched the group approach.

Tom had felt such a thing before. Several times. When he was judged in the Council in Wayrest. When he had attended the Hunter’s Gathering.

It was the particular weight that came with the regard of a Flawless Idealist.

And before them, there were two.

The Abbot of Sunrise, and the Abbess of Sunset.