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

  The hunter shook off the hit and frantically reached for his dagger as he tried to slap away the powerful monster's hand. The relentless creature grabbed him by the wrist and tried to pull him from the dugout. The long, filthy, putrid–smelling black hair of the creature clung to the sweat on the hunter’s brow.

  “Get up!” said the creature, as its horrifically frightening face became obscured by a distorted miasma. It tried pulling the hunter from the dugout, but the hunter tried with all his might to stay within its confines.

  “Come on, get up! Stop trying to pull me down!” said the creature once more, as it hauled the hunter to his feet…

  The Disciplinarium

  “If you cannot achieve discipline, both physically and mentally, you will surely fail against the Savage, who does not require either. Without physical and mental discipline, our emotions and our fear weaken our body and resolve, leaving us too weak – to fight or defend. All the Savage needs is strength and hate, to strike down both you and those around you, seeking an end to all that we stand for and a plunge into disorder…”

  Speech to the new Guard,

  Frederich Leonis, Vigilant Tribune of the 9th Cohort.

  126th Cycle of Purity.

  “You're getting slow, Pious,” said a familiar voice, rousing Pious from his knockout–induced delirium. The speaker was a muscular and bare-chested man, his skin unnaturally reddened and inflamed. “I haven't landed a hit like that on you for quite some time – even had you talking to yourself.”

  Pious rubbed his eyes, trying to recover his senses and gave his training partner a cavalier smile. “Won't happen again,” he replied, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the Disciplinarium as he gazed around the room. As in the rest of Sanctum, there was no natural light from the outside world illuminating its interior. Instead, it was lit by the gentle glow of amber lodestones.

  The Disciplinarium, nestled within the bowels of the Praetorium, was a large, spacious and austere area, with many racks of training armour, weapons and wooden dummies used in the practice of weapon techniques. Scrolls of legendary combat techniques from both Aurania and Serica beckoned studious trainees from podiums scattered within.

  The smoothly finished stone walls of the Disciplinarium had silently borne witness to the advancement of some of Aurania’s greatest warriors – having proved their worth, their sweat and blood mixing with those of yore – engrained within the Disciplinarium’s fabric.

  In the centre of the Disciplinarium, equidistant from each other, stood three banks of two rows of benches, splitting the room into four separate sparring areas. The floor of each area was lined with many layers of felt, stained with light patches of sweat salts and dark patches of long shed dried blood. Trainers and spectators would sit on the benches while they observed Praetorians sparring, being graded or undertaking regular training exercises.

  As a change of shift was soon approaching, the Disciplinarium was almost devoid of trainees – save for a few remaining Praetorians, bringing their training sessions to a close. Pious placed his hand to the back of his pants and daringly looked his partner in the eye. “Daggers?”

  His formidable training partner smiled and nodded. “Daggers,” he said in agreement, and they both withdrew training daggers from scabbards affixed to their pants.

  The two bare-chested men slowly circled each other in a simulated knife fight in the middle of the principal training mat, the one closest to the door leading out of the Disciplinarium and into the Forefront.

  Pious’s partner charged at him and struck out. Pious blocked the strike with his forearm and a cringe-worthy thud. The two began to spar intensely, foot and fist colliding like the horns of two mighty Steppe Faun warring for territory.

  Pious’s formidable sparring partner, significantly larger than he - threw strikes with power and rage as Pious – the smaller and more adroit of the two – deftly blocked, parried and dodged the hulk's aggressive strikes.

  As they fought a two-man practice war, a young boy sprinted into the Disciplinarium from the corridor and ran in their direction, with an older, heavily bearded man dressed in the garb of a Sanctum Magister walking slowly behind him.

  Pious’s large opponent took a step back and gave a sly wink to the boy running towards them. Pious heard the incoming boy's footsteps and turned himself slightly to face the approaching target. When he saw the boy, a smile crossed his face. Jacq – the young Page Ward, an orphan, an Underborn much like himself, was as much of a younger brother as he was a like a son.

  Closing in on Pious, the boy formed his hand into a fist and threw a punch. It was typical and almost customary for the boy to test his skill and machismo by greeting Pious with a swift strike. With effortless skill, Pious deflected Jacq’s powerful blow to the side and tossed the dagger to the floor.

  Jacq momentarily lost his balance, almost tripping, before regaining his footing and turning to face Pious again.

  “Nice try, Jacq, but you will have to try harder than that my boy,” said Pious, goading the boy by pointing an outstretched finger of a powerful hand at him. Pious and the other Praetorians were equally to blame for Jacq’s boisterousness as each other – persistently goading and challenging the lad, pushing his boundaries, strength and skill beyond their limits.

  “Maybe I won’t have to,” replied Jacq, as an impish grin spread across his face. Pious’s expression turned to one of slight confusion about the reasons for the boy’s impishness.

  Pious noticed Jacq looking at something over his shoulder. Quickly turning his head, he pivoted his body on the spot, raising his arm and grabbing the wrist of a hand thrusting a training blade at his head. Crushing his fingers into the wrist, he grabbed the blade from his sparring partner's hand.

  With a smirk on his face, Jacq quickly turned and ran towards the old Magister and stood by his side, watching with a huge grin of excitement as the two sparring partners stared each other down. Jacq, studying them from afar, was aware of the intensity at which these two men would train.

  “You’re still too slow, Quistin,” said Pious, placing the training blade into his belt, while still holding Quistin’s wrist in a vice-like grip.

  “And you’re still too old, Pious,” remarked Quistin. He thrust his foot at Pious with a push kick, aiming for Pious’s abdomen.

  Pious took a step backwards, causing Quistin’s kick to fail in its connection. Quistin placed his foot back on the floor.

  Pious placed his front foot on top of Quistin’s and gave him a slap in the face, before retreating several steps with a smile, making his way across the training hall to a stand full of training weapons. Pious quite enjoyed infuriating Quistin. He felt it was therapeutic to the chronically enraged Quistin – and he was right. The repeatedly deflected strikes of Quistin did indeed deplete his stores of energy and rage.

  Pious Argentum, the Prime Prefect of the Praetorium, had a solid build and posture, reflected in his tall, proud and smug walk towards the rack of training weapons. He rubbed his hand through his sweat-drenched dark brown hair showing signs of grey, signs of his progressive age. As he flicked the sweat from his hand to the ground, his wrist groaned. Sprains and simple injuries were becoming more frequent – and annoying. But irritation and pain were no more as bothersome as the sweat on his brow – simple nuisances that could be wiped off, disregarded and forgotten.

  His body was covered in a multitude of combat scars, with four prominent scars sweeping around his torso from the back to the front, disappearing below his tanned linen training pants. Pious had no recollection of what had caused the scars – but a Master Shadefiender’s study of the scars deduced that they must have been caused by a long-forgotten encounter with the saw–like talons of an Elder Czarnog.

  Pious had hard, deep blue eyes, Sky-Eyes, whose searching gaze made most feel uneasy – as if they were being interrogated. Sky-Eyes, in comparison to the more common brown and green eyes, were relatively scarce within the walls of Sanctuary, and children comprised most of
those with Sky–Eyes.

  Pious glanced towards the bare-chested Quistin Odeon, who was wearing the same standard issue linen training pants as Pious. Pious noticed Quistin glaring at him in Quistin’s standard ‘I want to crush his skull’ expression, as he walked across the training mat. Pious laughed to himself – never ceasing to be amused by Quistin’s tightly wound personality. Both men were clean-shaven, as per the Disciplines of the Praetorium, which decreed that all Prefects should be clean–shaven as a devotional sign of control and discipline.

  Quistin was unnaturally large and muscular, and his skin was permanently inflamed – a condition caused by the experimental Strength Serums. Pious couldn't stand the concept of Strength Serums - the concoctions of unknown composition prepared by the Ecclesiastical Medici to enhance the strength and endurance of those who tilled the fields – and of the Authoritor who ensure their docility. To Pious, any word or deed that would bear fruits greater than what was sowed was considered as morally blasphemous. He truly believed and adhered to one key writing of The Wise and Noble Lumerus - ‘rightful and lasting gains await those who plant the seeds of their broken and painful flesh, in the fertile soils of Labour’.

  Strength was surely the gain from the use of the Serum, but no Labour was required to gain it – making it unrightful and worthless. As the Prefect of the Vigilant Legion – Pious rejected the meddle and peddle of the Ecclesiasts and their suspiciously powerful concoctions. There was no way he would subject his charges to such madness.

  Although Pious was the Prime Prefect of the Praetorium, he couldn't stop Quistin from using or administering Strength Serum amongst the Authoritor Legion, neither by personal discourse or Praetorium regulation. As Quistin was the Prefect of Authoritor Legion, he had full leadership and decisiveness of his Legion and proposed the administration amongst his Tribunes and their Cohorts. Almost all Tribunes accepted the proposal, with very few rejecting the proposal to administer to the Cohorts under their own command.

  Pious understood Quistin's obsession with size and strength, demonstrated by his double and at times triple dosing of Strength Serum, wasn’t about tilling fields. It was for vengeance, to avenge the untimely death of his parents, Imperator Harold and Imperatrix Yelena Odeon.

  Unlike the Underborn Pious, Quistin was Knownborn and knew his parents. During his youth, Quistin had been abducted and forced to witness the ritualistic slaying of his parents at the hands of the Veiled Unrepentant. Quistin had been set to follow his parents’ example and become one of the Ecclesiasts – but after bearing witness to the death of his caregivers and being helpless in strength to do anything, he had felt called by fate to join the Authoritor. He swore that he would protect those of Sanctuary at any cost from the wicked scourge of the Veiled Unrepentant - and that he did. Many a heretic had met a painful end by the Example, due to the work of Quistin and his Legion.

  Quistin and Pious had both lived 54 Cycles, with Pious being Quistin’s senior by several Passes. Although Pious was nowhere near as big or as strong as Quistin, he was much more agile, less reckless and more even-tempered. Just like his eyes – his resolve was like the strongest of steels and his sound judgement was highly sought on military and policing matters.

  Much to the dismay and long-lasting resentment of Quistin, Pious’s temperament had earned him the trust and favour of the late Prime Prefect Felixius, which eventually led to Pious receiving the title of Prime Prefect upon the passing of Felixius.

  Felixius, himself a soldier with just and sound judgement – would never in his right mind have chosen Quistin as his successor. Quistin had a terrible and unpredictable temper, something which Pious struggled to discourage and restrain. This uncontrollable rage was due to Quistin’s unspoken addiction to the extract of the Adrenaseed, an addiction known only to, and kept secret by, Pious. Pious had no idea where he would gain access to such rare narcotics – but he dared not inquire, as an angered Quistin was much better than an insanely murderous one. Quistin was not much of a talker, and Pious could only assume that Quistin’s use of such a powerful stimulant was to suppress the deepest of pains – both physical and mental.

  Pious stood at the training rack, analysing the assortment of non-lethal and unsharpened weapons. “These will do,” muttered Pious, as he picked up two large upright staves made of steel, one in each hand. Each stave weighed close to five Shot – and would prove unwieldy to an average man, being almost the same weight as a standard knee-high sack of milled flour.

  Pious walked towards Quistin and threw one of the staves to him, which Quistin caught mid-air with ease. Pious laid hold of his staff with both hands and without warning, span on the spot and took a strike at Quistin, effortlessly wielding the heavy staff with finesse.

  Quistin blocked the strike. The loud thud of steel meeting steel echoed through the hall, ringing deep in everyone’s ears and through the flesh of the combatants.

  “One Step, I’ll show you my full power, unrestrained, Harshlander,” said Quistin, pointing the end of his staff at Pious, with the fire of rage burning in his eyes.

  “I hope so, Quistin. I’m getting bored, even for a Harshlander. Now, come on, take a strike!”. While to most, the term ‘Harshlander’ may have inspired deep resentment or anger – but not Pious. It was almost a term of endearment. As Pious had no recollection of his life beyond the last ten cycles and likewise being Underborn – it was a common joke amongst his colleagues to assign him the nickname of Harshlander – an insult by those of Sanctuary aimed at those who dwell beyond the realms of the Concordat.

  Pious and Quistin continued trading blow for blow, while Jacq looked on with excitement, examining and studying every strike. The old Magister took a seat and watched as these two middle-aged men fought with the reflexes and power of men half their age, giving each other no quarter, dodging each other’s strikes with impeccable skill and reflex – as if by premonition.

  Pious placed the end of his stave on the ground and jumped into the air. Using the staff as a prop, he launched a kick at Quistin, kicking him in the abdomen and dropping him to the ground.

  As Pious's feet hit the ground, he drew his staff over his head, bringing it down with force and cutting the air, stopping just in front of Quistin’s face.

  “Who’s too old now, Prefect?” laughed Pious, jesting with sure confidence in his victory.

  “I don’t know? You tell me,” replied Quistin, as he gestured for Pious to look down. Pious looked down, to notice the end of the steel staff pointing at his crotch.

  “An impasse, yet again!” said Pious, before letting out a laugh. Pious placed the end of his staff on the ground and offered his hand to Quistin.

  Quistin stretched out his arm and lay hold of Pious’s outstretched hand, hauling his hulking opponent to his feet. “And yet again, you’re still a Harshlander,” replied Quistin, as he gave a smirk. Despite his tumultuous love-hate relationship of his brother in arms – he did respect his tenacity and skill. Deep down, he also acknowledged Pious’s perseverance and friendship, yet would never admit the same.

  Quistin was a monstrous figure, with huge arms and legs. The veins climbing atop his muscles almost burst through his skin. Sweat was dripping from his head, which was shaved close to his scalp, covered with a multitude of tiny scars from his habitual scalp shaving with a straight razor. Half of Quistin’s face was disfigured from an acid burn, caused by an agent of the Veiled who had tried to assassinate him in the Districts. The failed attempt was nothing but a badge of honour to the ‘Flayer of Shadows’, the moniker assigned to him by the general populace.

  Like Pious, Quistin was also an Excelator – memorialised by the symbol of a crossed key and sword permanently marked on the back of their hands. The Enclave of Excelators were those men and women whose survival skills during the darkness of Tenebrae were duly recognised, a recognition that made them the only people allowed to venture outside the walls of Sanctuary during the Dark Steps of Tenebrae and return.

  The title of Excela
tor was administered and awarded by the Kaziers of the Magistratum, as were the Excelators' duties. The Excelator's role was from a bygone and dark Era – an Era when those of Sanctuary played more of an active role in the protection of the Concordat lands during the Cycles of Darkness, from the foul Shadefiends that threatened the realm. It was a role that continued by tradition rather than out of necessity. The Enclave was in its death throes – their numbers being less than could be counted on two hands. Excelators were considered not only as formidable fighters but as the sole Ambassadors of Sanctuary. Since no one could leave the walls of Sanctuary, the Excelators filled the role of messengers and investigators if the need arose.

  “Give me that,” said Quistin, pointing to the staff in the hands of Pious. Pious handed it to Quistin, who walked off towards the rack of training weapons.

  “Have you reconsidered the Imperator’s proposition?” asked Quistin, looking over his shoulder at Pious as he placed the staves into their respective locations. He kept a sly eye on Pious, assessing his change in demeanour.

  “No, I haven’t, Quistin,” replied Pious sternly as he was instantly put on edge. He knew what was going to come of Quistin’s question. He knew it was like a deliberately wielded verbal dagger aimed at his weakened side - and he would not entertain the response expected.

  “You should, though,” he continued, as Quistin turned to Pious and casually strode in his direction. “I don’t know why we are discussing this again. We need you to maintain order here, not to create more burden on the populace as a Vindicator – as an Inquisitorial thug. You should be wanting to protect the people from their villainy.”

  Quistin stopped in front of Pious, his face beginning to show signs of frustration. “The Inquisition needs able hands, Pious; you of all should know that. The Districts are full of dissent – the people murmur heresies, and their hands are idle. Something must be done to stop the chaos and return order. The Authoritor cannot do this – we can merely contain it,”