Exhumation: An Epic of Existentia (Acts of the Sojourner Book 1) Page 9

  “Everything all right, Prefect? I heard there was an attack at the Gate!” said the voice of a young woman, somewhat muffled by the fog.

  Pious looked closer at the face of the young woman and recognized Centurix Akantha Corinthus. Akantha was one of the more recent recruits into the Winged Sentinels – the Vigilant’s cavalry Cohort. Pious knew her at once since she had been handpicked from the Districts by Pious himself because of her natural affinity for training and riding the Velox Faun.

  “Not really, Centurix Corinthus,” said Pious, as he spotted some Arboreal Clerics clear off the Fosse bridge, most likely clearing the way for the two incoming Praetorians. A smile crossed the face of the young Centurix. It was not usual for a recruit Centurix to speak to the Prime Prefect, let alone have him remember their name.

  Pious and the Centurix tried keeping their Qulin apart as the two Qulin tried to hit each other's antlers in a display of dominance.

  “Anything I can help with, Prefect?” she asked as she leaned back and hauled the antler reins to the left, forcing her Qulin away from that of her commanding officer.

  “Actually, you can. I need you to be hyper-vigilant. I want a full detail of Winged Sentinels on watch during this Tenebrae. I am sorry, but that will entail missing the Tenebraen Feast. I will ensure it is made up to you all.”

  “Duty first, Prefect,” she replied with conviction.

  Pious smiled to himself at the recruit’s enthusiasm. “I want anyone entering or leaving the Curtain to be completely searched. Coordinate with the Overwatch – and don't raise undue suspicion,”

  “Can I ask for more details, Prefect?” she asked sheepishly, trying to glean more information related to his concerns.

  “Not yet, Centurix. I must consult with the Tribunal.”

  “I will pass on the order – a continuous watch for the whole of Tenebrae. I will organize additional supplies for an extended stay outside.”

  “Thank you, Centurix,” said Pious, as the young Sentinel began to turn her Qulin.

  “Akantha – I see you handle the Qulin well,” said Pious, acknowledging her ease of riding the somewhat difficult–to–control Qulin.

  “They are point and ride, Prefect. Much easier than a Velox,” she replied, with self-assured flair and a smile revealing itself through her helmet. “Prefect!” she added with a nod, signifying her understanding and acknowledgement of her new orders. Then she rapidly diverted away from Pious, charging into the distance with her Qulin, its lodestone disappearing into the fog.

  When Pious reached the entrance to the Northern Cardinal Dome, he jumped off the Qulin and unfastened the moss–bearing satchel from the back of the saddle.

  “Rest,” commanded Pious to the Qulin, as he slapped it on the hindquarters. The Qulin bucked its front legs and ran off towards the stables, disappearing into the fog. He threw the strap of the satchel over his shoulder and slung it comfortably under his arm.

  Pious ascended the stairs leading to the Northern Cardinal Dome, where he was greeted by the Praetorian guards with the slamming of their weapons against their shields as the porters opened the door.

  Pious charged through the Dome and the corridors with a sense of urgency, ignoring all external distractions. Consumed by his own thoughts, he bumped into two blue robed Kazieri Scribes who were heading in the opposite direction, knocking the woman of the pair to the floor.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” said Pious, as he helped her to her feet, assisted by her male colleague.

  “It is okay, Prefect,” she said, as Pious turned his back on her and continued hurrying towards the Operarium.

  Pious scratched at his chest, rubbing at something under his tunic that irritated his skin. He reached into his collar and grabbed a piece of parchment. In the heat of the ambush and aftermath - he had forgotten the parchment Tumas had stealthily shoved into his tunic.

  He withdrew the parchment and held it in both hands – analysing it as he walked. Besides the sweat it had absorbed from his skin – a splashing of dried blood covered its surface. The letter was written in two languages. The first and most obvious was the Old Tongue text that had been roughly stamped into the parchment, in typical fashion used to mass produce notices. Underneath the lines of printed text, was a handwritten translation into Common. Without even beginning to read the words – the concept of the two languages written together was a concerning concept. He read the Common translation to himself quietly, muttering the words as he walked.

  BROTHERS AND SISTERS OF THE DISUSED (OLD?) WATCH (GUARD?).

  TENEBRAE APPROACHES – AS DOES OUR RISE (DAWN?).

  OUR SHADOWS (COUNTERPARTS?) REMAIN IN THE BRIGHTEST OF LIGHTS. THE FALSE FLAG IS FLYING HIGHER THAN EVER, DRAWING (LURE?) THEIR ATTENTION.

  THE OPENING (KEYS?) WILL BE IN OUR HANDS - AND THE ACTIONS (MECHANISMS?) OF DECEPTION SOON TO BE IN THEIRS.

  ALL ARE BLIND (FOOLED?) – WE HAVE VICTORY (SUCCEEDED?).

  THE WALLS SHALL FALL WITHOUT A SINGLE BEAD OF SWEAT FROM OUR BROW, OR DROP OF BLOOD FROM OUR FLESH.

  THE GREED OF THE UNION HAS LED THEM TO BE BLIND (FOOLED?), AND THE CONCORDAT IS SOON TO SHATTER.

  THE RIGHTEOUS (STRICT?) FOOLS (BLIND?) PREPARE TO SET SEA - AND THE MASTER IMPATIENTLY AWAITS HIS NEW ARMY.

  THE MASTER WILL BE MOST PLEASED WITH YOUR EFFORTS.

  NOTHING CAN HALT THAT WHICH HAS BEEN SET IN MOTION.

  BE RUTHLESS IN YOUR RESOLVE - UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN IN HIS SHADE.

  Pious rubbed his head in confusion as he turned the parchment over - and immediately noticed some hastily written scrawl.

  False flag = Veiled Unrepentant

  Righteous Fools = Strict Observance of Merusul

  THERE IS NO VEILED UNREPENTANT!

  He couldn’t understand the somewhat cryptic message. He couldn’t help but wonder why the Daggers would risk and sacrifice the lives of senior members, to what appears an action only to place this parchment in the hands of himself? It wasn’t like the Daggers to go to such lengths to disseminate their propaganda.

  Despite his lack of patience, sympathy or mercy for their cause – he did feel concern over their somewhat valiant efforts. What could Tumas have meant by not letting the Reclamation Army pass the Shield? More disturbingly – would could he have meant by the statement ‘Draetor and his conspirators seek his demise’. It made no sense. He knew and disliked Imperator Draetor for what he is, but Draetor was neither stupid nor reckless – and too much of a coward to undertake such a task as toppling the Prime Prefect.

  He scrunched up the parchment in frustration and tossed it to the ground as he approached the laboratory of Zosim. When he reached the laboratory, he burst through the doorway with satchel in hand.

  Caregard

  “Those women who have been scorned, whether betrayed or barren – summon them to me. The self-destructive force of a vengeful woman bears furies beyond the normal confines of her shell. I shall take her fury, refine it and direct it through the Dance of Blades. If she shall not bear life, she shall bring calculated and efficient death,”

  The first beckon and call of the Deathtress,

  The Deathtress.

  Allegedly dated from an unknown Cycle in the Era of Lies.

  “I have the moss,” said Pious.

  Zosim let out a shocked startle, turning rapidly to face him. “By the Nines! Are you trying to kill this old man?”

  “Forgive me, Zosim,” replied Pious. He held out the satchel, still damp from the Grotto’s waters.

  Zosim started grumbling incoherently to himself as he wheeled himself towards the door leading out of the room.

  “Pious, can you pick up that device on the right-hand side of the shelf, second from the bottom?” he asked, pointing to a cabinet as he was wheeling out of the room.

  Pious gave Zosim the satchel and walked over to the cabinet. He picked up the device as requested and made his way towards Zosim, who had already started his way down the long corridor.

  “The young lady is in the infirmary,�
�� said Zosim as they hurried through the corridor. “The Cherishe have been tending to her with a watchful eye.”

  “Zosim… there is something I need to discuss,” said Pious.

  “No – not yet. I must concentrate. I must have no distraction.”

  Pious and Zosim reached the entrance to the Ecclesiasticum’s Grand Vestibule and stopped outside the door adjacent to it. Zosim wheeled into the entryway opposite to the Ecclesiasticum, and Pious followed him into a large white hall. This beautiful hall, known as Caregard, was the administrative seat of the Cherishe. The most striking feature of Caregard was its grand main atrium, known as the Hall of Return.

  In the centre of the Hall of Return was a large set of stairs leading upwards, which forked at a platform in the centre of the room.

  Caregard's upper levels housed the administrative offices, libraries and dwellings of the senior Cherishe. The lower levels had two infirmary wings where the sick and wounded were tended. Situated behind the staircase was the dormitory wing which most of the Cherishe called their home.

  Two Cherishe Guardians in full ceremonial armour, both members of the Eiralan Order, stood at the base of the stairs. Each Guardian had a mantle of white silk draped from her shoulders, falling short of touching the ground. Their armour was metallic and lustrous white, with golden trimmings. Both wore helmets of the same material, revealing their expressionless faces. Atop the helmets were two golden–coloured wings covered in white plumes, arising from the back of the helmet. At their sides, the Eiralan wore two curved swords – known as Graces, and unique to the Eiralan Order. The Graces were sheathed in elegantly adorned scabbards and fixed to intricate waist sashes.

  The Cherishe, although aligned with the Ecclesiasticum, were highly respected amongst the Focal Powers, but most especially by the Praetorium. They were respected for the healing aid provided by the Eir, and for the martial abilities of the Ayldar and Eiralan in any conflict. Ayldar and Eiralan would often train in the Praetorium, and the Eiralan would at times attend battles and skirmishes with the Militus and Praetorians if given permission by their headmistress.

  A woman appeared on the upper mezzanine and started to descend the curved upper flight of stairs towards Pious and Zosim. She was garbed in a flowing white dress, fitting tightly through the waist and hugging her hips. Two greyish–blonde braids lay atop a white breastplate of the same material as the breastplates of the Cherishe Guardians.

  She was an older woman, almost the same age as Zosim, yet time had little effect upon her appearance. She radiated an immense beauty and a fierce presence.

  “Master Zosim. Prefect Argentum. What brings you to the halls of Sessrúmnir?” asked the woman, placing her hands together and bowing her head slightly in a polite greeting.

  “Lady Parodia. I was here earlier with Serana. She asked me to provide an opinion on the wounds of the stowaway,” replied Zosim, nodding his head in respect. “Pious has returned from the Evergreen – with Evershade moss.” He lifted the satchel slightly in his hands, presenting it to her attention.

  She stopped on the stairs and peered into the corner of the hall in contemplation. “Evershade Moss…,” she wondered aloud. “Excellent idea, Master Zosim. Why did I not think of that?”

  “I am sure you would have if you were not more distracted by important tasks than I am, my lady,” said Zosim, with a smile.

  She laughed aloud and continued slowly descending the stairs. Her skirt caressed the white polished marble steps in her wake, and the train of her dress seemingly floated on air. When she reached the base of the stairs, she walked over to Zosim and Pious and placed her hand on Zosim’s head.

  “Zosim, you appear to have taken a keen interest in this case. May I inquire as to why?” she said, as she patted the linen cap covering his greyed hair.

  “Curiosity, my lady. The wounds trouble me, for I know them not,” replied Zosim bashfully, as she dropped her hand by her side.

  “Follow me,” she said, and walked towards the back of the hall, leading them down a few corridors and pausing at the entrance to an infirmary room.

  Pious stopped before entering the room and placed his head into the palm of his right hand, groaning deeply – his mind suddenly felt as if its very fabric was being restructured.

  “Are you all right, Pious?” she questioned.

  “I’m fine, Friesia,” replied Pious, as he regained his composure.

  “If you say so, Pious,” said Friesia, with sideward glance of concern.

  “Have you seen Tana yet? Has she returned?” asked Pious, as he massaged his temple.

  “I don’t think so – I haven’t seen her, anyway,” said Friesia. She pointed into the room, where a woman lay on an infirmary bed. “Do what you must, Master Zosim. She will not be leaving here alive if you do not, as we have exhausted our abilities.”

  She stared coldly at Zosim, tapping on a dirk attached to her belt, before turning and going back to the main atrium. Inside the room, two Ayldar Order Shield Maidens, wearing the sky–blue dresses emblematical of their affiliation, flanked the door, watching the activities of their Eir.

  In the room, a comatose woman lay on her right side with her back to the door. Her long auburn hair was dishevelled and clung to the pillow and sheets as if to a magnet. She was wearing a dark, skin-tight one-piece outfit of tanned leather, revealing an athletic, feminine figure. Many strange markings and patches adorned her attire. A green rectangular patch was fixed to her upper left shoulder. The patch bore the impression of a fanged skull in metallic silver, with a dagger piercing the skull from the bottom up through the top.

  A hole had been ripped from her clothing, with a blood and plasma stained gauze bandage covering a significant portion of the woman's left side. A lady dressed in crimson, who was standing next to the bed and inspecting the wounded woman, turned and picked up a bundle of wrappings from a chair next to the bed and walked over to Zosim.

  “Master Zosim, our further attempts at mending her wounds through Aetherics have proved useless, and the Aetheric Sutures degrade rapidly. She is extremely weakened, and the wound is radiating Animus freely. I dread to consider what could cause such a horrendous wound.”

  “I’ll take over, Serana; you must go and rest. This young Eir and I will take it from here,” Zosim said, wheeling next to a young Eir who stood at the end of the woman’s bed.

  “I need to speak to you outside,” Serana whispered in Pious's ear as she gestured for her Ayldar to stay in place. “Excuse me, Zosim,” she said aloud and made her way out of the room.

  “Not to worry, Serana. I will start the preparations,” replied Zosim, as he wheeled over to a small wooden table.

  Pious placed the equipment he was carrying onto a table and followed the young lady out of the room into the hallway, where he stood out of earshot and out of view of the door.

  The young woman, Serana Parabellum, was the daughter of the late Prime Prefect Felixius, sister of Sincerus and a competent and respected member of the Eir Order. She wore a dress of similar cut and fit as that of Friesia; however, hers was crimson in colour, the outward symbol of her membership in the Eir Order of the Cherishe. She had one single chestnut coloured braid draped to the left side of her neck and down her ample bosom, and her vibrant and ruddy-cheeked face shone with the brightest of Forest–Eyes. Serana had her father’s eyes, but the rest of her was her mother. Florina Felixius, from the line of Weronae, who was said by many to have been the most beautiful woman in all the realms of Aurania.

  Serana’s hands were covered in the Aetheric Amplifiers of an Eir – elegant gloves with a series of interconnecting metallic plates woven into the palms.

  “You’re bleeding,” Serana said quietly, as she wiped some blood away from Pious’s nose with a cloth she had withdrawn from her pocket. She touched the side of his face with her gloved hand in obvious concern. “The pain, again?”

  “Yes. It’s all right, Serana,” he replied, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and inspecti
ng the smear of blood.

  “Still with the same feelings?” she enquired.

  “That was the strongest it has ever been” he replied, rubbing his temples with his hand. “The sensation of being here before felt like it obscured my vision.”

  “You should really let the Medici look at this. Only you still have these additional symptoms,” said Serana.

  “No, Jarus will too,” said Pious, wiping the blood from the back of his hand on his trousers. Serana looked at him with chastisement.

  “Are you all right, Serana?” Pious asked. “You look exhausted. You really should get some rest.” He tucked some of her hair back behind her ears; it had come loose from her braid and was obstructing her vision.

  She gave him a contented yet fatigued smile and offered him the swaddled object she had brought from the room. “This was with her things.”

  “I have never seen anything like it before,” she continued, looking from the wrapped object to his face.

  Pious unwrapped the bundle and revealed a hand–held tool or weapon, metallic matte black in finish. He took up the object by the handgrip and pointed the other end of it down the corridor with an outstretched arm.

  “It looks like the hand muskets of the Serican kingdom, and kind of like the bolt-blasters the Karajaners use, too,” he said.

  “I don’t like this. I think she is dangerous,” confessed Serana.

  Pious inspected the object intently, rubbing his finger over some writing. “Ordo Ordinance – Slagstrike Mark IV,” he said, reading it out. “Where does the cartridge go?” he mumbled to himself, inspecting the barrel.

  “She was found in a crate of medical supplies,” Serana continued. “It was locked from the outside. The crate she was found in contained many other strange items as well. I took them while the others were distracted and hid them in my dormitory so that you could see them first,”