Exhumation: An Epic of Existentia (Acts of the Sojourner Book 1) Read online

  Aurelius pushed Pious in the chest, causing him to almost lose his balance.

  Pious held his sword in two hands, defensively. “What is wrong with you, Aurelius? Are you mad?”

  “Me? Mad? What is wrong with you is more the question!” replied Aurelius in anger, striking at Pious with all his strength. Pious parried the strike and charged at Aurelius with his shoulder.

  Aurelius stepped back and brought his sword over the top of his head to chop at Pious, missing as Pious dodged the strike with a back step. Pious threw his sword onto the ground behind him and held up his hands.

  “Come on, Aurelius, talk to me!” shouted Pious, trying to talk down his fellow Excelator and friend.

  “No,” replied Aurelius, with an expression of hate. He thrust his blade at the Pious's torso, missed, and struck the wall in a shower of sparks.

  Pious seized the moment; he grabbed Aurelius’ wrists and placed his leg behind that of his opponent, tripping Aurelius backwards and disarming him as he fell. Aurelius used his strength and agility to regain his balance and composure, spinning Pious on the spot and slamming him into the wall, holding him by his Praetorian breastplate. Both men briefly stared at each other in a Surge induced state, quietly trying to determine the next move for dominance.

  Pious shouted a war cry and pushed back, in turn, throwing Aurelius towards the opposite wall. Aurelius took a few steps backwards before stopping for a moment to catch his breath. He smiled and huffed to himself before charging at Pious again.

  As he closed in, Pious grabbed at his torso. Aurelius grabbed at Pious in turn, and the two men began to grapple with each other, each one trying to trip the other up. Aurelius lost his balance and began to fall backwards, pulling Pious with him.

  The two hit the ground with a loud crash, as Aurelius’ armour met the floor. They continued grappling, each man pushing the other’s arms away from his neck as they tried to strangle each other. Aurelius pushed at Pious and managed to tip him off the top. Quickly grabbing his short–sword, he straddled Pious's chest, drawing his sword over the top of his head and trying to thrust it downwards into Pious’s jugular. Pious managed to move his head enough to dodge the blade, and followed through by punching upwards with his right hand and striking Aurelius in the nose, causing him to throw his head back in pain. Pious pushed upwards with his hips, tipping Aurelius over and kneeling above him. Then Pious brought his arm around Aurelius’ neck, locking his hand in place, and began choking his opponent.

  Aurelius dropped his sword and tried punching at Pious, but his strikes became slower and slower, and he was grunting loudly. Then he stopped moving and went limp. Pious kept the tension on Aurelius’ neck, ensuring that he was unconscious before letting him go. Then he withdrew the lodestone from around the neck of Aurelius.

  Slightly dazed, Pious stood upright and shook his head, looking down at Aurelius in confusion.

  “What is going on?” Pious mumbled to himself as he considered the Heptakron, to the location where Draetor had been standing and whispering – the Sigil.

  The Sigil, a multi-panelled mural, stretched out before Pious, barely illuminated by the lodestone in his hand. Pious had studied enough to understand what was before him – each panel related to a chapter in the heretical story of Existentia. A Praetorian Vigilant of the Unbreakable Guard needed to be well versed in and aware of the heresies that disrupted Sanctuary, to detect and report any deviations from the Way of Lumerus.

  The many Aurum–plated panels that constituted the Sigil were commonly known amongst the learned as ‘The Unbreakables’, as the Idoloclasts had found no method by which to destroy their imagery and texts.

  As the Idoloclasts could not destroy the Sigil, they declared it off limits and selected the finest warriors from the Auranian ranks to stand guard at the entrance and interior of the Dome of the Decree, creating what became the forerunners of the Vigilant Legion and the Unbreakable Guard. Under the guard of the Vigilant, The Unbreakables were locked away in the Crypt, never to be seen by any but those authorised to do so.

  The Sigil began with the story of the cosmogony of Existentia and ended with the story of the three Arkons tasked with overseeing the design and construction of the Waypoint – the structure after which Sanctum was supposedly modelled. However, Pious was most interested in the plate that Draetor had been standing in front of–the fourth plate of the Sigil, titled the ‘The Betrayal’, the account of the Arkon Shalimar’s betrayal of his kin.

  Pious heard subtle movement from deeper within the Crypt's corridor, where the smoke had gathered and became trapped. “Who’s there? Come forward!” he shouted. He waited for a moment, listening intently and watching the gently flowing wisps of the cloudy mist.

  “One down – four to go,” said a quiet, haunting and somewhat familiar voice.

  Pious peered into the mist and could spot what appeared to be a giant figure, obscured by the smoke. Pious jumped to his feet and hurried towards the figure, with lodestone outstretched. The wisp-like trails of smoke parted ways, revealing no figure and the feeling that Pious was indeed alone. He couldn’t hear any further sound or speech, and well knowing time was of the essence - he hurriedly continued towards the Crypt’s exit.

  Pious tried, but he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Draetor, Aurelius and the Advocate’s somewhat prophetic cryptic scroll - none of it made sense. He dropped the lodestone onto the ground by the head of Aurelius as he passed by the lifeless man. The lodestone grew slightly brighter as it hit the ground.

  Counsel Sought

  “Hiding one's actions for fear of righteous persecution, whispering, sneaking, lying… all are acts performed by those tainted with the afflictions and the influence of the Malignus. To bring an end to the dark influence, you must seek out the Surepsis, a spawn of the Malignus made flesh, and destroy the wretched Dhemon. Only then shall Beneficence be felt once more.”

  Hexenjaeger Codex, Entry on ‘Causation of Subversion and Dissent’,

  Unknown Author.

  48th Cycle of Lies.

  Pious walked up the slight incline and made his way out of the Crypt. He closed the door behind him before continuing up the staircase, climbing with a steady and even pace. Each step increased his elevation, his heart rate and his frustration.

  Once Pious reached the top, he spared no time in opening the door out of the Dome of the Decree – forcefully. He cared not where Draetor was; whether he was in or out of the Dome, it mattered not. All Pious wanted to do was bring his ever-increasing list of concerns to the attention of the Tribunal.

  Two Vigilant Centurions stood nearby with spears in hand, both looking distressed. They turned and saluted Pious as soon as they noticed him. “Prefect, Imperator Draetor just left the Dome of the Decree,” said one of the Centurions.

  “I know; foul work is afoot,” replied Pious. He scanned the Northern Dome, trying to determine where the Authoritor had gone.

  “Did you strike him, Prefect?” questioned one of the Centurions, interrupting Pious’s thoughts.

  “Strike him? No. Why do you ask?” replied Pious.

  “He had a cut on his face and was bleeding. He said you struck him, and he was going to report the matter and left the Dome with a Tribunal Magister,” stated the guard, looking concerned. He knew well the ramifications of striking a Prelate.

  “What is Draetor doing?” Pious asked himself quietly, as he remembered the unsettling sight of Draetor slitting his own face open. He diverted his attention back to the Centurions and pointed to the Centurion who had been doing the talking.

  “Centurion, head to the Praetorium. Tell Prefect Quistin to meet me in the Conclave immediately. I must find Magister Lothar.”

  “Your will be done!” replied the Centurion with a salute and ran off towards the Praetorium.

  “He was the Magister,” said the other Centurion as he stared at Pious, who was gazing into the mosaic-tiled surface of the Dome above.

  “What?” Pious asked, diverting
his attention to the Centurion.

  “The Magister that met the Imperator; it was Magister Lothar. They were yelling at each other as they left the Northern Dome,” said the Centurion, looking at Pious, who appeared visibly exhausted. A large group of people stood huddled together in the Dome, gawking at the unfolding scene.

  “No one goes in, by the order of the Prime Prefect. Understood? No one” ordered Pious.

  “Understood,” replied the Centurion.

  “Screwed up again, Harshlander?” shouted an Acolyte from the crowd.

  Pious stared at the floor in frustration and took a deep breath, then turned to look at the crowd. Pious spotted the self-professed Advocate from the Magistratum, standing next to his female colleague. The Advocate stared at Pious through the throng of people and shook his head in disappointment as he and his counterpart turned away from the mob.

  Pious turned and hastened towards the Magistratum. The corridor walls and the multitude of people moving through Sanctum were nothing but a blur to Pious, who walked with speed and conviction. Many tried to stop and gain his attention, but their attempts fell on deaf and apathetic ears. He had to find Lothar; he was just in reach – Lothar was his key to the truth.

  Pious snapped back to reality as he stormed into Lothar’s office, throwing open the door after failing to knock in his usual courteous manner.

  The office was empty. Lothar’s desk was messy, and strewn with books and scrolls. Lothar’s chair was also pulled out. However, Lothar was a fastidious man who would never leave his office in such a condition, which further raised the suspicions of Pious. “Something’s not right,” he said to himself as he rushed out of Lothar’s office, searching through the corridors to find Lothar, or at least to find someone who would know his exact whereabouts.

  Pious passed by several offices, looking inside each one. All the offices were empty, many with their doors open wide.

  As he hurried down the corridor, puzzled by the emptiness of the Halls of Righteousness, he noticed a scribe carrying a bundle of paperwork.

  “Scribe!” he shouted, as he jogged towards the young man.

  “Yes, Prefect?” replied the scribe, bowing his head briefly.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They are most likely in the Conclave for the Tribunal,” replied the scribe, readjusting the large pile of paperwork he was lugging.

  “A Tribunal. Do you know what for?” asked Pious, feeling uneasy. He rummaged through the ends of the scrolls, reading the ribbons tied around them. “Dereliction… heresy….”

  “I don’t know, Prefect. All I know is that an emergency Tribunal was called,” continued the scribe. “It is where I am meant to be taking these Chapter Scrolls,” he added, still struggling to hold them all in his arms.

  “Thank you, scribe,” replied Pious, and patted the young man on the back before running towards the Conclave. The sound of his footsteps echoed through the usually noisy corridors.

  Once Pious reached the main hall of the Magistratum, he ran up the stairs leading towards the entrance of the Tribunal Conclave. As he was approaching the top of the stairs, Pious could hear a commotion ahead.

  “He’ll show…,” said a voice, as Pious’s head began to rise above the top step.

  “There he is!” shouted the voice again. Pious looked up and spotted three Vindicators running towards him, with a Vindicator Adept pointing at Pious from behind them.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he yelled at the rapidly approaching Vindicators, two of them with a Shield on one arm and a Restraining baton in the other hand, the other free handed.

  Without a response, one of the Vindicators charged at Pious, attempting to tackle him to the ground.

  Pious grabbed the shoulders of the freehanded Vindicator and drove his knee into the Vindicator's chest, dropping his winded opponent to the ground.

  Another Vindicator swung at Pious with his baton, as Pious responded by deflecting the baton-wielding hand of his assailant and meeting the side of the Vindicator's face with his clenched fist.

  The winded Vindicator on the ground, now partially recovered, grabbed Pious by the ankle with two hands. Pious turned and attempted to kick off his apprehender before being struck on the head with a blow from a Vindicator's shield.

  Pious dropped to the ground on his hands and knees, dazed from the heavy blow. His heart began to beat more strongly in his chest as the Surge began to course through his bloodstream, and he shook his head as his pupils began to dilate. He jumped forward and tackled the approaching Vindicator Adept with a shoulder charge before turning again, regaining his composure and facing his next assailant.

  Two Vindicators charged at Pious a second time. Pious blocked an incoming strike from the Vindicator on his left, punching him square in the jaw and sending a mouthful of blood and spittle from his mouth. He parried the blow of the Vindicator on his right and punched him directly in the nose over the top of his shield, dropping him to his knees in agony. Pious thrust his elbow back to strike the Vindicator Adept in the eye–socket, then threw his fist forward to connect with the already broken jaw of another. It seemed like an endless barrage of punches and kicks came at Pious, from an ever-increasing group of Vigilants.

  A shield wielding Vindicator stood up with his back to Pious. Pious grabbed him around the neck and began to choke him in a sleeper hold. Then second shield bearing Vindicator approached Pious from behind and hit him over the back of the head with a baton. Pious slumped to the ground, dragging the Vindicator with him.

  Pious began to choke the grounded Vindicator with all his strength before being belted over the head with a baton, and Pious's vision darkened. Another blow landed on his head with a sickening thud, and he rapidly faded from consciousness.

  The Conclave

  “Of matters that cannot be straightforwardly settled by the Focal Power as to which is relevant, or that cannot be settled with indifference due to a conflict of interest, a Tribunal shall be assembled as a Conclave, constituted of no less than equal divisions amongst the Focal Powers, under the custodianship of a Curator. Fair judgement shall be determined by vote or ballot, of which the greatest of votes for or against, shall be the final judgement.”

  An excerpt from Structuram Civilitatis, Chapter XIV,

  The Wise and Noble Lumerus.

  1st Cycle of Truth.

  “You didn’t think you would get away, did you?” said a deep and frightening voice. The hunter felt cold – painfully cold. Nausea overwhelmed him, induced by the deep and throbbing pain in his head. He opened his eyes, only to be blinded by a dull orange glow, which seemed to bite at his face. He tried to shout – but his mouth was gagged tightly.

  The hunter’s legs twisted as he was forcibly rolled over. He was lying naked, body deep in soft snow, with fresh snow falling from the never-ending black sky above. He tried to move, but his legs were bound tightly, as were his hands – behind his back. He had never felt such vulnerability – and the feeling was sickening.

  Towering over him was a hideous, monstrous and muscular figure, illuminated by a burning torch driven into the ground underneath a primal and crooked tree. The monster’s skin was blood red, covered in hideous tattoos of an unknown and frightening design, with what appeared to be a human skin wrapped around its shoulders and another around its waist, so that the beard and hair of some fallen human acted as its loincloth.

  In one of its hands was the end of the rope which bound the hunter’s legs together. In its other hand was a huge mace, with what looked like four human skulls affixed to its end. The creature placed the mace head first into the snow and threw the coil of rope in its hand over a large bough of the tree. As the rope passed over the bough, the creature grabbed the rope’s end again and pulled down on the rope with ease – hauling the hunter off the ground and suspending him in mid-air.

  “I have been hunting you from a Howl to a Howl, Ursarion since you escaped me. One whole Howl – that must be some kind of tracking record. You even m
anaged to kill my father’s favourite tracking hound – the useless waste of meat that it was. However, I will have to explain its loss to him. I guess presenting the Ursarion’s liver to my father will be a glorious trophy of my kill, and consolation enough,” said the creature. The creature slowly scraped the tip of its stone dagger, from the belly button of the hunter to his throat, at the same time as it imitated a sound as if the hunter’s guts fell to the floor.

  “You really didn’t think you would escape me, did you?” the creature continued. It crouched low, onto its knees, and closed its eyes, taking a deep, slow breath through its nose.

  “I can’t stand it, Ursarion. Why I cannot smell fear from you – it’s puzzling… and disappointing. Here – let me taste your sweat; there must at least be a single drop of fear in it…” The creature opened its mouth, stuck out its dark green tongue and licked the hunter’s face with a trail of foul-smelling saliva which covered his eyes in a putrid fluid…

  Pious shouted with fright as he began to regain consciousness. He was being dragged along a polished and cold marble floor, with an almost fully congealed stream of blood obscuring his vision.

  As Pious’s consciousness began to return, he could hear a multitude of voices, melding together into a nauseating, disorienting and droning hum.

  Two bloodied and sore Vindicators dragged Pious into the middle of the Conclave and released their grips from his shoulders as he fell to the floor.

  “How convenient! Your timing for your own trial is perfect, Pious!” proclaimed a voice, one somewhat familiar to Pious, even in his enfeebled state.

  Pious was slouched over his knees, with his cheek pushed hard onto the cold floor and his hands tied behind his back.

  He used his slowly–renewing strength to push himself off the ground with his face as a prop, raising himself off the floor.