On a hillside in the foothills leading to a low and arid mountain range, two figures stood amid the brush in the light of the evening sun. One of the figures, scanned the dry and sparsely wooded plains stretching out below them, turning to desert as they reached the horizon. After a few moments, The Mage pointed into the distance at a seemingly unremarkable acre of tall grasses. “There,” he muttered to his companion, a young woman dressed in acolyte’s robes, “north of the path, where the heather grows thick. There is a lone oak tree. It marks the south-east corner of the homestead.” The acolyte stared down onto the heath, eyes shining with reverence. “The Hallowed Farmer’s birthplace,” she whispered, “the actual birthplace…” She had spent many years studying the sacred texts documenting the life of the Farmer. The Mage regularly underwent the pilgrimage retracing the Farmer’s journey, and had allowed her to accompany him as part of her induction into the Order. This was their first stop. “Yes,” said the Mage. “where He was born and so much more. It was there He underwent His first trial, the first of many. It was there He was first betrayed, and there He reaped His first vengeance.” The acolyte, nearly overcome by the weight of history, clasped a small medallion hanging from a chain around her neck. It bore the symbol of a golden sickle. In her other hand was a book from the scriptures, the First Book of Holy Canon. The Mage turned to the acolyte. “Let us begin the ceremony of remembrance,” he said. He then raised his hand into the air and began to intone words of power. A dazzling light began to shine from it, and around their feet green shoots sprang up into stalks of golden wheat before the acolyte’s eyes. After a few moments, the Mage fell silent again and the light faded. The sense of wild growth, however, remained in the air. The acolyte opened her book, and began to read aloud... ********** (2 Tes. 5:12-25 First Canon) ********** (2 Tes. 5:28-30 First Canon) ********** Her recitation finished, the acolyte closed the book. The two had wandered back to their horses at the bottom of the hill. “So concludes the ceremony,” said the Mage. “The hour grows late, let us be on our way.” The acolyte took one last look at the Holy site, then the two mounted their steeds and began to walk east out of the valley. “I have often wondered,” said the acolyte as they rode, “about the chapter’s ending. What was the significance of the sack of bandit’s heads He carried?” “Yes, the sack of bandit’s heads, known in some translations as the ‘bag of skulls.’ It is said that He intended to lay them out before the king as proof of the baron’s treachery and abandonment of his serfs. Some historians even say that the eyepatches worn by the bandits bore a sigil signifying they were secretly in the baron’s employ. Others simply point to it as proof of the Farmer’s incredible strength and martial prowess even from a young age. “In any case, you will recall that by the time the Farmer begins His time in the desert, He is no longer in possession of it, having buried them at the behest of the Aradmeli Rab…” They continued, now in conversation, now in thought, as they made their way to the next stage of the pilgrimage, toward distant deserts coronated by the setting sun.
The acolyte sat on a stone outcrop in the middle of the desert in the gathering dusk. The sun had nearly sunk behind the dunes and a crescent moon was beginning to reveal itself as the obscuring glare of day began to soften. She had been following the road through the desert with the Mage for two full days now, and by this time all that was visible from horizon to horizon was sand. From what he had told her, it would be at least two more nights before the road would bring them out of the desert to the next leg of their pilgrimage. Although they were adequately provisioned for the desert crossing, the acolyte ate and drank as sparingly as she could, in case they needed their supplies to last. Moreover, she had wanted a glimpse into tribulations experienced by the Farmer during his years crisscrossing the desert with the Aradmel tribe. However, she was unused to such deprivations, and her thirst had already carved lines into her dry lips. She knew their horses would be comfortable and well-fed, the Mage’s magic saw to that. As for the Mage himself, she had yet to see him eat or drink. Next to the acolyte, the small twig fire she had built was softly crackling. The mounts were tied to a tenacious zaera bush that was clinging on to the edge of the outcrop. In the near distance was the desert road, where the Mage was in conversation with a mounted man in fawn-colored robes, out of earshot of the acolyte, who was looking on with curiosity. After a time, the rider loosened a large cloth-covered package that had been fastened to his horse behind him and handed it to the Mage, who in turn handed the man a handful of gold. After this transaction, the rider nodded to the Mage and rode away at a canter. The Mage then returned to their encampment with his new parcel. He sat down opposite the Acolyte in front of the little fire and carefully placed the mysterious package down onto the stone floor next to him without a word. The acolyte, who had completely forgotten her hunger and thirst in her curiosity, was about to ask about the Mage’s purchase, when suddenly he spoke: “Do you recall,” he said, “our conversation from this morning regarding the Book of Aradmel?” “Y-yes…” replied the acolyte, caught off-balance by the sudden questioning. “You mentioned that you were frustrated by the lack of writings chronicling the Farmer’s years in the desert,” said the Mage, turning to the cloth-bound package and reaching a hand inside. “Yes, and you mentioned that new scrolls from that era had been found and were being transcribed by…” she cut herself off with a shocked gasp that startled the horses as the Mage drew a new-looking scroll out of the package. “Is THAT…?” she asked breathlessly. “Mm,” replied the Mage. “My merchant friend back there brought me one of the first copies of the new readings. The translation is still a bit spotty in places, and much has been left out while scholars verify the authenticity of the statements, but I believe you will learn much.” He handed the scroll around the fire to the acolyte, who was trembling with excitement. “The scrolls are mainly the writings of an unnamed Aradmeli chronicler during the time of the Farmer. Perhaps you could read some of it to me now…” ********************* “But how could he make such a vow,” asked the acolyte, lowering the scroll, “if they are cursed never to be able to leave the desert?” “An interesting conundrum,” replied the Mage. “let us move forward a few years.” ********************* ********************* “Tabat’Sheb, ‘the blade of vengeance,’” said the acolyte. “Correct. They still use that name when writing about The Farmer in the desert nations, I am led to understand. It shows that Dhakiym had not forgotten his promise to Him. Apt.” said the Mage, “You recall, by the way, the prophecy of the Aradmeli seers?” “It said...that only one tribe may leave the desert, and that he who leads that tribe will break the curse at the cost of his life, or a fate worse than death, depending on the translation,” recalled the acolyte. The Mage nodded, staring into the now-starlit horizon. “I think,” he said after a few moments, “that I should like you to jump to the end.” The acolyte rolled through the scroll until she reached a point a few entries from the end. ********************* ********************* “That is the end of the scroll,” said the acolyte, stunned, her mind racing with questions. The Mage sat in silence, eyes shut in contemplation. “A most interesting insight,” the Mage said at last, as the acolyte rolled the scroll back up. The sun had long since set and the stars shone brightly in the cloudless desert sky. “So this is how He was betrayed, by this elder, L’fiq. And the man in the armor must have been the king from the legends, who held the Hallowed One prisoner! But what could possibly have made him do such a thing?” “I believe that he was never a part of the tribe, but was from the start in the employ of the king,” replied the Mage. “He had, perhaps, been found wandering the desert, much as the Farmer had been, and integrated himself into the Aradmel at the behest of his king in order to help the tribe find the Farmer in the desert. They had their own prophecies to fulfill, you see.” “Is this also why he spared the life of the archivist?” said the acolyte. “Mm, indeed, and this is the clearest account there has ever been of the capture,” answered the Mage. “The fact that these scrolls exist at all is a virtual miracle, considering how difficult it was for these desert tribes to procure the necessary materials. Devilishly difficult to translate, considering how tiny the original writing was. And they would never have existed at all, were it not for the inexplicable mercy of this ‘L’fiq.’ “And now, we have a much greater insight into the Holy Farmer’s formative years in the desert, and a meaningful addendum for the Book of Aradmel. We also have a firsthand account of His first meeting with His nemesis.” The acolyte, having rolled up the scroll, placed it into her pack. Her eyes were still wide and her heart was beating quickly. “Such a cruel life,” she said, “rushing from garden to garden, gathering flowers to squeeze what moisture they could from them, a whole tribe surviving on droplets.” “Oh no, not quite! Oh!” exclaimed the Mage suddenly, “I nearly forgot…” He turned back into the large clothbound package out of which he had pulled the scroll and unwrapped it. The acolyte gasped in astonishment for the second time that night. “A Mayoa Fountain!! An authentic one?” The Mage walked over to the edge of the outcrop and set the urn’s pointed base into the sand, where it stood upright. He then reached into it and pulled out a small bag, which he emptied onto the sand. Four slightly dried but colorful flower blossoms tumbled out. The acolyte leapt up and ran over to the Mayoa Fountain like a delighted child. “Let us find out,” said the Mage solemnly. He placed the flowers into the urn and intoned a few words in an ancient language. There was a brief glow from the stone on the front of the jar. A few seconds later, clear water began to bubble merrily out of the Mayoa Fountain, splashing down onto the sand.
The main road leading to the holy city of Ciro, birthplace of St. Timaios, was like a slow-flowing river fed by streams from all four corners of the kingdoms. A great mass of traders, buskers, and most of all, pilgrims, moved steadily up the road to the city towards its main feature, the Grand Temple of St. Timaios. Musicians sang as they walked, while roadside merchants peddled trinkets at passersby. Although it was customary to fast while on the pilgrimage, food vendors swam up and down through the crowd doing their best to entice the hungry faithful to cheat. Walking their horses amid the great press of life were the Mage and the Acolyte. Although the journey from the desert to the holy city would only have taken a few days on horseback on an empty road, the slow progress of the crowds meant that it was the seventh day since they left the edge of the desert, and by the Mage’s estimation they were still two or three days away from their destination. The sky was thickly overcast for two days now, though no rain had fallen and there was only the occasional rumble of distant thunder. A refreshing breeze wove its way through the masses, and the solemnity of pilgrimage had given way to the pleasure of travel and of being out of doors in fine weather. Despite the crawling pace and the constant noise, the acolyte was enjoying herself a great deal, albeit guiltily. She chided herself for not using her time on the road to Ciro for prayer and study. However, the vigor of the surrounding river of humanity was a rare change from the silence of the abbey and a heady contrast to the desolation of the desert, and she could not suppress a spark of excitement and curiosity in her heart. For the most part, the acolyte and the Mage did not attempt to speak to each other over the noise of the crowd. The acolyte occasionally tried to read one or another of her texts, but always found herself watching the other travelers instead. The Mage did not look around at all, but stared straight ahead with his customary frown of concentration, purposefully perusing his mental libraries. After a noon meal of bread from a roadside vendor, the acolyte noticed that the noise of the crowd had diminished enough to allow conversation. She turned to the Mage and remarked: “I see many here who are either quite young or very old.” “Yes, it’s the wars,” replied the Mage. “Most men or women of fighting age have been enlisted. Those waiting for their return pray for their glory in battle. Many undertake the journey to Ciro in the hopes that St. Timaios will deliver their prayers for victory to the Great Farmer.” The acolyte nodded, and clasping the symbol hanging from her necklace whispered a battle prayer before continuing, “St. Timaios was a nobleman before he met The Farmer, was he not?” “Yes, he came from quite a prestigious family, apparently. I say ‘apparently’ because most records of the family were altered or destroyed after he was imprisoned,” said the Mage. “‘The Great Leveler of wheat and men.’ Chronicles, 26.4,” quoted the Acolyte. “In life and in death, all are equal before Him.” “Death and the dungeon make equals of us all,” replied the Mage. “St. Timaios was not a particularly virtuous or brave man, but he was well-educated and and keen of mind, and he was able to maintain both his sanity and his diary throughout his decades in the Nemesis’ dungeon.” “He had a remarkable strength of will, then,” said the Acolyte. “No doubt it was his association with the Holy Harrower that gave him this strength.” “Doubtless, doubtless. Yet, who can say?” said the Mage, then in response to the acolyte’s reproachful glance, said “It may have been the Farmer, who needed him alive and sane to record the Farmer’s doings and teachings. However, outside forces were even then acting on the Farmer’s fate. We know this to be true.” He looked up at the steel sky and sighed. “The torment underwent by the Farmer would have killed a thousand men a thousand times, but He was not allowed to die. It was His misery and His miracle that He survived.” The acolyte was startled and moved by the Mage’s unexpected and uncharacteristic display of emotion. The noise of the crowd seemed to fade away as she suddenly found the concentration that had eluded her over the previous few days. She looked back to the text she was holding and began hungrily to re-read it. Before them, the road wound on and on as the river of pilgrims continued slowly flowing towards the holy city of Ciro. Excerpts from the diary of St. Timaios. . . . . . . . . . . . . ********** The bells of the magnificent Grand Temple rang out into the early evening as the acolyte and the Mage walked out into the city. “A beautiful service,” said the Mage, but the acolyte said nothing. The readings of the past few days still weighed heavily on her mind. “I do hope you paid proper attention,” he continued. “The section on intrepidity was particularly pertinent.” “I cannot stop thinking about the Journal of St. Timaios,” admitted the acolyte. “How could such cruelty exist?” “It does, because all things that exist, exist. One end of the spear exists because the other end does. Fate is as kind as she is cruel.” “You mean that without their trials, neither The Holy Farmer nor St. Timaios would be who they were?” “Partly, yes.” he replied, stroking his beard thoughtfully as they walked through the town towards the stables. The streets smelled of recent rainfall, and the steel-grey sky promised more to come. “About the...end bit…” continued the acolyte hesitantly, “I’m not clear on what the Mage was whispering to Our Leader.” “Ah. Well, it was part of a grand plan. He revealed things about His past, you see, which tied His life of misfortune directly to the king. He also whispered promises to Him, that He would one day claim the king’s head.” “He was whispering encouragement?” queried the acolyte in disbelief. “No, not quite ‘encouragement.’ It was all part of the plan, you see. To promise something through a thousand days of torture, then to take it away at the last. The final straw, so to speak. “You know, they say St. Timaios was also tortured from time to time, but wouldn’t note it in his journal. They say he was ashamed for his own suffering to be compared to that of the Harvester.” He looked down at the acolyte, who suppressed a shiver at the recollection of the final days of St. Timaios. He stopped walking and turned to her. “You will never be able to serve the Great Farmer properly if you blanch in the face of atrocity,” he said, sternly but not unkindly. The acolyte looked up at the Mage. Rebuking herself mentally, she gave him a firm nod. “You know what the next leg of the pilgrimage holds, don’t you. Are you certain you are ready?” Again, the acolyte nodded. I must be stronger, she told herself. If I am to survive this pilgrimage, I will need to toughen my mind and soul. “Good, good,” said the Mage, apparently satisfied. “Let us set off while we can. We can reach the campsite by nightfall if we leave now.” The acolyte turned around to take one final look at the splendor of the Grand Temple of St. Timaios. Then, whispering a final prayer for resolve, she turned and followed the Mage, as behind them the river of pilgrimage continued to flow.
The deep, somber tolling of a large cast iron bell filled the air surrounding the high rooftops and towers of Armes Abbey, sounding three times before floating away into the increasingly snowy evening sky. The Mage replaced the iron mallet next to the bell and stood before the gates of the abbey awaiting admittance. Behind him, a set of stone steps wound its way down the side of the high mountain, through a layer of cloud and out of sight. Before long, one of the initiates at the abbey, a young woman in grey cowl and robes, appeared. Wordlessly, she unlocked the gate and let the Mage into snow-filled courtyard. Then, with a deep bow, she gestured for him to follow her. The initiate led the Mage back through the trough she left in the snow on her way to the gate, then in through a door in the side of one of the abbey’s outer structures. The two wended their way through the maze of stone corridors and stairwells of the large, fortress-like collection of buildings. Eventually, the initiate stopped at a door on an upper floor and loudly knocked three times. “Enter,” replied a voice from within. The initiate opened the door for the Mage, who entered, then she shut the door behind him. The room, like most of the abbey’s rooms, was bare but for a wooden bench along one of the walls. It was dimly lit by a few candles in sconces, and a narrow window was set into the far wall. Standing next to the window was the abbess of the convent, a tall, thin woman of late middle-age wearing the same gray robes as the initiate, but uncowled, revealing a head of gray hair cropped short. “Lord Mage” she said to the Mage, with a slight bow. “Hierophantess,” he said, returning the bow, “forgive my lateness. The wars, you see.” “How fares the kingdom?” asked the abbess, her expression stern. “Our resources have been severely taxed by the uprising in the southern provinces. We are currently awaiting aid from the clan. But I don’t believe you sent for me merely to inquire after his majesty’s health, mm?” asked the Mage as he joined the abbess at the window. As he neared her, he could see through her usual stern facade to the worry beneath. “Fear not, I have read your letters,” he continued, “I have full confidence in you and your abilities, Hierophantess.” “It is not my own abilities that trouble me, Lord Mage, as well you know,” said the abbess, in grave tones. “We monitored the girl carefully ever since you brought her to us. In the past two years, she has shown herself to be a diligent student of the Chronicles. She works hard at her chores and endures any hardship with stoicism. But we have seen absolutely no sign that she has Gift.” The Mage did not respond, but turned to look out the window. The snow and wind were picking up, and had long since veiled the neighboring mountaintops. He stared out into the dark gray evening. “Has the Ordeal begun?” he asked after a few moments. “Dawn, yesterday,” replied the abbess, who could no longer conceal the note of reproach in her voice. “We cannot stop an initiate from undergoing the Ordeal if they wish to do so. I did everything in my power to convince her not to.” “Why?” asked the mage quietly, turning to the abbess. “Why? If she undertakes the Ordeal and does not have the gift…if only you had arrived earlier! I’m sure you could have convinced her not to attempt it. She will not heed my counsel, the stubborn girl!” The Mage stroked his beard thoughtfully. Despite the abbess’ stern demeanor, her concern for the acolyte’s safety was clear. “Hierophantess. I do not wish to contradict you, but I can assure you that the young woman has the heart of a shieldmaiden. I have crossed the desert with her. She has an unflagging spirit and will not give in to the ritual. But more than that, I promise you, she is Gifted.” “Contradict me, Lord Mage. By all means. More than anything I hope that you are right and I am mistaken,” replied the abbess anxiously. “You have wagered her mind and her soul on it. She will be staring down the very abyss. If she is the first to look away, her shieldmaiden’s heart will be forfeit.” The Mage fixed the abbess with a steady eye. “Mark me, Hierophantess,” he said. “She has the Gift. She will endure the visions and see into the past. She will see the Red Realm and she will know the truth of it. She will bear witness to the Story, and she will emerge, sound of mind and soul, to serve the Farmer.” They both turned to look out the window to stare at the wild whipping of the snowy winds. “The girl is an Oracle,” continued the Mage. “I’d stake my life on it.” I see...a domain of crimson. The sky, the earth, everything here is of different shades of red. The very air has a sanguine tint to it. And it is so hot! A painful heat emanates from some unseen point far away, like a great fever. I can also feel a terrifying pulling force from that direction, drawing in all life and energy...it tugs at my very soul! Were I truly here, I would not survive a minute. I can hear no sound other than a relentless, low-pitched hum that fills the air. I see no river or lake, and only roiling red-black clouds overhead, although I can feel no wind. The land is barren of flora, other than patches of a strange gorse here and there, bushes of tangled vines as hard as iron. Indeed, they glow red here and there from the intense heat, like metal in the forge. The vines are covered in evil-looking thorns, some of which are as long as a man’s thumb. These bushes seem to be unaffected by the great draw of energy. Surely this is the realm of the damned. I am traveling now, away from the source of the aching heat...as I float through this blighted plane, pieces of information about this place begin to crystallize inside my mind, as if I am hearing a stranger’s memories…the bushes, for instance, are called “dolorthorn gorse”...the skeleton of the small animal impaled on one of the nearby vines once belonged to a rabbit-like creature called an “acrida”... And although I do not remember who I was, I now understand where I am: Uzhkadh, the Red Land. That land to which are drawn all the souls of those who die unavenged or with great anger in their hearts. It is both terrifying and piteous to behold! Yet where are all the souls? I cannot sense them...this world should be teeming with them, demanding to be reborn, demanding a chance for vengeance...yet all I can feel is a foreboding emptiness... But mixed in with apprehension, I feel a sense of anticipation...I know I am to meet someone here. And there, in the distance! A red light shines like a beacon...I know I am to follow that light. My drifting mind covers the distance almost instantaneously...it is a man! He lies prone, outlined in an uncanny red fire. I know that his strange radiance both protects and pains him. The pulling force pulls at the fire but does not affect the man. Hours are passing quickly now...the man begins to stir. He comes to his feet...I cannot behold his face, for it is brilliant with the red light. He stands now, motionless...he is seeking something, or someone. This other-memory is granting me understanding of what I am seeing. He seems to scan the horizon...his awareness penetrates the very land itself… Ah! He screams with frustration, for he cannot find who or what he seeks...his fury is boundless! I can feel power and anger flowing from him like magma! It is inhuman! Another light has appeared now...a brilliant azure light! As if in response to the man’s cry, some sort of vision wreathed in blue light has appeared, suspended in mid-air before the man. It is man-shaped and clad in armor of blue gemstone and gold. It bears a golden sword and flies on wings of sapphire. It must certainly come from one of the celestial planes... The blue light and the red fire mingle...the man and the celestial speak mind-to-mind...this other-memory tells me that the apparition does not offer salvation, but issues a command. The man is to retrieve something, but I do not know what… The celestial being raises its sword...a single feather carved of azure gemstone appears before the man in the red light, and descends into his waiting palm. The vision fades from view, and we are alone. The man stands, contemplating the feather...he turns now and begins to walk. I follow. A few hours pass before my eyes in seconds...I can see the landscape changing as we go. The dolorthorn is becoming sparser as we move away from the heat source. How strange...perhaps they feed off the energy passing through them somehow? More time passes...the man has walked for days without stopping for food, water, or sleep...hold...he stops. He kneels and picks an object up off the ground. It is small, round, and wood-like...a seed of some kind? Here, of all places? From time to time, I see more of these strange creased pebbles on the red ground. The further the man walks, the more there are. Days pass in the blinking of an eye...I can see hills in the distance! We head towards them...can it be? There is a network of caves in the hills, and...yes...there are man-like creatures walking in and out of them. My other-memory identifies them as the demons native to Uzhkadh, the Shazo. As we get closer, I can see them more clearly...squat and pale reddish with spindly arms and legs. They move weakly and forlornly as if bereft of energy and will. Surely these cannot be the devils of war from the legends! At last we arrive at the caves, but the Shazo hardly acknowledge his arrival. One of them stops in his tracks and falls to the ground...his body shrinks and desiccates before my eyes. The strange seeds littering the ground on the way here...they are the remains of the Shazo, drained of their life energy by the unseen force feeding off of this plane. The Shazo have stopped... one of their hunters has returned to the caves with a brace of dead acrida hares. The others shuffle piteously towards him and begin tearing the flesh from the animals and shoving the raw skin and sinew into their fanged maws. The man watches them as they feed...I cannot tell if there is any pity in him for these wretched creatures mixed in with the ever-present anger radiating from his being, but he approaches one of them and speaks to him in their unpleasant, guttural tongue. I cannot speak the language, but the words’ meanings flicker into my mind like shadows from a bonfire. The demon recounts the cataclysm that befell their world. He says that many years ago, a being called Dudrul appeared in Uzhkadh and immediately began to draw all of the plane’s energy into itself. Where once the souls of the vengeful damned permeated this world, they were now drawn deep into the ground, through the land and into Dudrul. Life on Uzhkadh depends on these souls that willingly nourish the Shazo in exchange for the promise of vengeance. But the Shazo have been cut off for too long, and soon they will wither away completely. The man stands and raises his hand into the air. A ray of red light shines from it like a beacon, and the Shazo begin gathering in response to the crimson summons. Many demons have now gathered...the man begins to speak to the assembly in their tongue. He bids them to gather the Shazo dead and bring them to him, and he will feed them all. Time passes quickly again...the Shazo lay armloads of seeds...dead Shazo...at the man’s feet. Now the Shazo are gathered in a large field, clutching axes as tightly as their feeble hands can hold them. They watch the man as he chops and hacks the ground into long furrows...now I see them sowing the seeds of the dead like grains of wheat. Weeks pass. Before my eyes, the ridges of red dirt burst with plant life. Shoots sprout and immediately become stalks. The barren field has become become a field of strange multicolored wheat on stiff metallic stalks. The sown seeds of the dead Shazo have drawn the souls from the earth, away from the pull of Dudrul and into themselves, growing into a kind of soul-infused wheat! Now, the wheat is being gathered by the Shazo, who no longer shuffle about hopelessly but move with purpose. Time continues to pass quickly...the man shows them how to grind the soul-fed wheat into flour...the Shazo then take turns slitting their own palms and bleeding into the mixture, while it is stirred with spears into dough. The gory dough is rolled into round loaves and taken down into the caves to be baked in their depths. The Shazo are now gathered around a great mound of these loaves, and begin to feed...as they eat the bread, their skin begins to darken, changing from pink to red to a deeper blood-red. Whooping with joy, they devour the gruesome loaves by the thousands. The feast is over now, and the Shazo have completely transformed. Each demon is now three times its original size. Their limbs, once thin and feeble, now ripple with frightful sinew. They have begun stomping their feet and shouting war-chants in their guttural language...the spirit of battle has been rekindled within them. The man watched the meal and the celebrations without moving, but now he raises an arm into the air. The Shazo, war-loving chaotic demons though they are, cease their revelry immediately and turn their attention to the man. There is a powerful sense of anticipation in the air, as their new leader begins to speak... The man bids them to don their armor and gather their weapons, for they are to march on Dudrul! Time passes...the Shazo army is now mustered and numbers in the thousands. They begin marching, led by the man in the aura of red, towards the source of the heat and the absorption of energy...the Shazo are laughing and jeering...licking their chops in anticipation of the coming battle. Days of marching pass in a blink. The army never stops marching, for the spirits of the vengeful dead now fill them, exhorting them, granting them power in exchange for the promise of violence and revenge. This is the covenant forged by the baking of the soul-bread. The further we go, the more of the dolorthorn there is. The vanguard are hacking at the metal vines, but their progress has slowed considerably… Ah!! On the horizon!! I can see some sort of growth on the land, radiating heat and malice, drawing all life and energy into itself… The man has spotted it too...his aura of pain flares in intensity, and he rises into the air! He flies now, towards the distant malignancy, leaving the Shazo behind to slash their way through the deadly gorse. I follow… We near the object...I can see now that it is some kind of hideous chrysalis, as tall as a mountain, standing upright in the ground like an obelisk, deep red in hue, pulsating with an evil force...at its base, black tendrils pierce the ground, pulsing greedily as they drink of the souls with which this world was once saturated. The man’s red glow is extremely bright now. He flies at the chrysalis, examining it, searching for some kind of opening. He tries pulling at one of the armor-like ridges on its midsection, but it does not give way. He punches at it, but despite all his strength, he cannot make a dent. Pulling back, he considers the chrysalis for a moment...ah! The feather of blue crystal dropped by the celestial! He brandishes it now like a curved dagger, his red aura turning blue around it...as he raises it… AAH!! The feather-dagger...he brought it down on the chrysalis! It pierced the shell, which cracked...cracks shot through the entire structure...which then burst with earthshattering force! Shell fragments and black ichor flew in every direction...I thought my heart would stop from the noise of the explosion! There! On the ground! A creature like a monstrous locust, but with the torso and face of a demon! In its taloned hands is a giant golden scythe! This is Dudrul, who has claimed this plane as his own, and all the souls herein! It turns its hideous countenance towards the man, who plunges downwards. Dudrul slices at the air with the scythe, but the man is too small and quick, and circles the demon-god’s head like a gadfly. As they battle, I can sense a change coming over this plane...the intense heat and unsettling hum generated by the chrysalis is gone, and the souls of the dead that were once being drawn into the ground to be absorbed into the giant chrysalis begin once again to fill the atmosphere… The man begins to grow now...the souls have acknowledged him! He has become a god of revenge, and is grown giant now with their power. He is now of a size with Dudrul...he plunges his fist, still glowing blue with the power of the celestial feather, into Dudrul’s maw! The head of the demonic locust explodes in a blue light! The new god of vengeance, ignoring the violent death throes of the defeated demon-god, takes up the scythe of gold...I can hear the Shazo, having now cleared the gorse, stampeding towards us. They descend on the body of Dudrul and begin devouring it. The grim feast goes on until there is nothing left. The Shazo too now begin to grow in size and power, having fed off the flesh of a god. There is a blue light...a shining door appears in the sky! One of the celestial beings descends through it...a true one this time, not merely a vision, able at last to enter the dimension now that Dudrul was dead. It speaks to the minds of those assembled. I cannot hear its voice, but I can sense its imperiousness and contempt...it is demanding something of the red one… I understand now. It demands the golden scythe. A hush has fallen over the world. The Shazo are grinning. In one fluid motion, the god of vengeance sweeps the golden scythe into the side of the blue portal through which the celestial descended, decapitating the celestial in the process. The god roars...with the strength of stars, he drives the scythe through the side of the portal, tearing a great gash in the sky! The god of vengeance shouts triumphantly...he rises into the sky and flies through the torn sky into the world of the celestials...he is gone. The celestial’s head and body tumble through the air. The Shazo, brimming over now with power, rise like a red column and devour it. No part of it remains. The Shazo army now follow their new lord into the portal...and are gone as well. ********** An urgent knock at the door cracked through the snowy evening silence. “Enter!” said the abbess sharply. An initiate burst in. “Hierophantess, she has completed the ritual!” she exclaimed breathlessly. The abbess, hearing the tone of the initiate’s exclamation, glanced at the Mage. Wordlessly, they left the room and and made haste to the Chamber of the Ordeal. The Chamber was on one of the highest levels of the abbey, and so it was several minutes and numerous flights of stairs before the Mage and the abbess arrived at the short hallway outside the sturdy wooden door leading to the room. Two sisters of the order stood at guard outside the door to prevent interruption of the ritual, as was customary, but they stepped aside as the abbess and the Mage approached. Inside was an antechamber and the door leading to the Chamber proper. The abbess rushed through the door, while the Mage stayed behind in the antechamber. The uninitiated were not permitted to enter. The Chamber of the Ordeal was a large, pillared stone room whose distant far wall had been removed, and normally opened onto a grand mountaintop vista, though all that was visible now was night and snow. The air was heavy with scented oils and herbs of purification. A stone bench sat in the middle of the Chamber, on top of which lay the acolyte, surrounded by sisters of the order. One of them held aloft a blue-green crystal which glowed with a healing light. The acolyte was breathing heavily and her eyes were open, but she did not respond to the sisters’ attempts to awaken her from her spiritual journey. The abbess rushed into the circle of women. “How did she fare?” she asked the sister holding aloft the crystal. “Her vision was extraordinarily detailed.” replied the sister. “She recounted all from His arrival to His march on Zelantangelus. However, it was an enormous strain on her body and mind.” The abbess clutched the sickle symbol around her neck. “O Harvester,” she whispered, “please return her to us.” “Awaken, child!” she then urged the acolyte. “Your kingdom needs you.” But the acolyte did not acknowledge her plea. The sisters continued their ministrations. The abbess stepped back. The ritual had to be completed. Addressing the assembly, she said: “Sisters! Has she been granted a vision clear and true?” “Yes, Hierophantess!” replied the sisters in unison. “Has she seen the truth of the Red Realm?” asked the abbess, more loudly. “Yes, Hierophantess!” replied the sisters. “And has she…” here, the abbess’ voice faltered slightly, and she hesitated for a moment, before continuing, “...has she returned to carry out her duty and lead us with her Sight?” But the room was silent, save for the distant sound of the wind among the mountain peaks. And then, very quietly, a weak voice was heard: “Yes...Hierophantess…” whispered the new initiate, an acolyte no longer. Outside the room, the Mage smiled to himself as he heard a joyous cheer erupt from the Chamber of the Ordeal.
The murmur of life in the streets and alleyways of Magna Messor always carried an undercurrent of reverence, for the city was home to the holy seat of the Order. The bright morning sun shone down upon the Archpantheon at Magna Messor. Its rays entered the great temple through an array of stained glass windows and warmed the cool autumn air inside its vast chapel, where the Order’s annual ceremony of investiture was underway. Every seat of every pew was full. Soldiers, clergy, aristocracy, and specially invited members of the public had come to bear witness to the ceremony in devout silence. At the front of the large chamber, six initiates who were to undergo full ordination into the Order sat on chairs in a semicircle behind a tall pulpit. Conducting the service from behind the pulpit was High Redemptor Tynus, a wizened and white-bearded cleric whose soft, quavering voice battled against the wakefulness of those assembled: “...for as St. Pillo said to the Kimorites: ‘All those who war shall pay a tithe unto Him, but the victorious alone shall reap,’ for in battle is found victory, and in victory are we brought nearer to Him...” In an enclosed section reserved for royalty, important dignitaries and senior members of the army, The Mage stifled a yawn and turned his mind back to matters of war, while High Redemptor Tynus wheezed on. It wasn’t until three quarters of an hour later that the Mage at last heard the High Redemptor say something that brought him back from his machinations: “...who will now read to us from the Book of the Cosmos.” With that, High Redemptor Tynus slowly turned and began shakily descending the steps of the pulpit. One of the initiates jumped out of her seat to offer him her arm, which he took with bad grace. Once the initiate and the High Redemptor were both finally seated, a door at the right-hand side of the chancel opened. A woman in white and emerald silken vestments entered the chapel, carrying a small book. The Mage smiled a rare smile as she ceremoniously ascended the stairs to the pulpit and placed the book on it. Opening the book, she looked up confidently at the assembled faithful. “Good morning,” said the former acolyte to the congregation, “I will now read to you from the writings of St. Gustaive in the Book of the Cosmos...” The Locust-King lay buried in the bellies of the Shazo. In his wake, a golden scythe of sublime beauty, Crafted by celestials and powerful beyond all other arms. The Holy Farmer claimed it as His prize. The Harrower slit the throat of the crimson Uzhkadh sky, Throwing open the door between worlds. Through this shining scar the Holy Farmer and the Shazo flew Into shining Zelantangelus. A world with no land, only golden sky and white clouds Lit by an unseen sun, never knowing night. Where dwelt an angelic race on wings of blue crystal. The archenemies of sin, the saintly Zelantine. As one the Zelantine flew in perfect serried ranks Extending as far as sight could see. In perfect unison, the drew their swords of shining gold. In dreadful harmony, they sang of their grim purpose: To scour the cosmos in the fires of righteousness, To cleanse all worlds of life, and thereby of sin. To crown their king, almighty Zelantangelus Whose world bears his name, as ruler of all creation. In their myriad ranks they flew, golden blades held aloft, An endless field of wheat, terrible and splendid. They commanded the Holy Farmer to relinquish the golden scythe And submit to the judgment of Zelantangelus the most pure. Yet Shazo showed no fear, and mocked and jeered at the Zelantine, And the Harrower raised His hand, and sounded the attack. Unseen trumpets blared and the Zelantine charged, And savage war began. The blue flock met the red swarm, and the dead rained down. Red claw bit blue wing, yellow tooth drew golden blood. Golden blades pierced black armor. Down fell the dead, into the hungry rift below. The Shazo were outnumbered, yet they had the upper hand, For so fearful were the Zelantine of corruption That any who made contact with the enemy Were slaughtered by their own comrades for their impurity. The Holy Farmer fought His way through the Zelantine ranks, The dead in his wake numberless. His golden scythe flashed and swirled ceaselessly As higher and higher he rose. Left behind were the shouts of the Zelantine and the jeers of the Shazo As the Farmer rose higher through layers of ivory cloud Until at last, he reached the dwelling of the king, Almighty Zelantangelus with his golden astrolabe. The great angel spoke to the Harrower: “At last you have come. Long have you suffered and far have you journeyed. You have done well to bring the golden scythe to me, but I do not have the soul you seek. I once served the great god, Death, alongside Dudrul, who you destroyed. Together, we forged the golden scythe and astrolabe. They were to give Death power over the cosmos And allow him to rewrite the laws of nature. He would have twisted the universe, changed it into A constantly churning machine of war To create an unending stream of lives to be sacrificed to him To feed him until the end of time. That’s why Dudrul and I conspired to steal these golden artifacts, Flee to other worlds, from thence to steal souls, Until the day we were strong enough to challenge the other And from there, armed with both golden items, to destroy Death and ascend to his throne. And now, with the power of the scythe and the astrolabe, I shall purify the cosmos And all worlds shall be as this one, untainted by the touch of man or demonkind. You have my thanks for bringing the golden scythe to me, But I do not have the soul you seek.” But the Holy Farmer fell upon the treacherous god, They fought, golden scythe against azure spear. For days upon days, they clashed above, While the armies of the Shazo and the Zelantine clashed below. But although Zelantangelus had the golden astrolabe, It did not respond to his beck, though it was equal to the scythe For it recognized the Harrower as its true owner, By right of conquest and by dictat of fate. The astrolabe betrayed Zelantangelus as he once did its first owner And the golden scythe pierced his outer flame. The Harrower tore the wings from the Angel-King’s back and placed them on Himself, And Zelantangelus was cast down into the rift. With the golden scythe and golden astrolabe reunited, A door into a plane of night appeared before the Holy Farmer. He left behind the battle and entered the door To Death’s starry prison. The Grim King greeted the Harrower from his dark throne: “You have served me well, O son of mortals. You have brought down my judgment on those who betrayed me And with my aid shattered the bonds of mortality. And because you have restored to me my holy trappings Your reward shall be great indeed.” And in Death’s hand was a small metal box Wrought of black metal and bound in chains of black. “I award to you the soul of the one who wronged you And brought upon you great suffering. The one responsible for your life of death and pain, All in the name of an empty prophecy. To you I grant this black soul to do with what you wish, To repay eternally the evil done to you. And what is more, you shall sit by my side as a god of revenge. This you have earned, for you have served me faithfully. What say you, O son of mortals?” asked Death As the black box passed through the air into the Holy Farmer’s hands. But the Holy Farmer spurned the gift, and cast it away from Him And said: “NAY! I AM COME FOR THEE, THOU THIEF, WHO HAST OF ALL THAT I HELD DEAR ROBBED ME, WHO HAST USED ME AND CAST ME ASIDE, WHO HAST TWISTED MY SOUL AND THROWN ME INTO THE PIT TO FIGHT THY ENEMIES IN THY STEAD. FOR TWAS THY PROPHECY IN THE KING’S EAR. TWAS THY BETRAYAL LED MY PEOPLE TO RUIN. TWAS BY THY FOUL ART I WAS FORBIDDEN TO DIE. AND NOW IT IS THY SOUL I STAND IN CLAIM OF, IF THOU HAST ONE.” And Death was dismayed, for he saw that the scythe and the astrolabe Had chosen the Holy Farmer as their owner. And he understood that his time had drawn to a close His creation having surpassed him. “Very well,” said Death. “Would that I had my scythe and my astrolabe still For without the power of foresight they granted I have paid dearly. I am fated to be your first victim as the new god of Death, but know this: By taking my life you are bound to my throne. My power is yours, and the scythe and astrolabe as well. You will have control over all cycles in the cosmos. Life and death, the days, the seasons. War, peace, and fate. Men and wheat shall rise and fall under your governance.” Without a word or a groan, the old god faded from existence. In his place sits even now the Holy Farmer. God of the cosmos and all the cycles. The Sower and the Reaper. May He reign forever. ********* “May He reign forever,” murmured the congregation in response, as the acolyte closed the book and descended the steps. She took a seat among the other initiates as High Redemptor Tynus resumed his spot at the pulpit. “Thank you, sister,” he wheezed. “I am reminded of the trial of St. Lemka, who fought in the Garne War against the heathens at Bellephus, when she was sent out into the desert without food or water, and was then visited by the spirit of…” The Mage thought back to the poised and dignified cleric who read the words of St. Gustaive in so clear and strong a voice. Gone, it seemed, was the quiet young acolyte he set out with all those years before. What had begun as wide-eyed awe and quiet reverence had grown into steady faith and confident resolve. The Mage looked at the former acolyte in her holy vestments. The role she was about to undertake was of great importance to her kingdom, and the look in her eyes told him she understood what would be required of her, and was ready to shoulder the burden. There it is, he thought. Heart of a shieldmaiden. Suddenly, she looked out at the congregation and saw the Mage. She smiled brightly at him before turning back towards the pulpit, and there was that young acolyte once again. An hour later, the High Redemptor had ordained the six initiates, and was at last completing the ceremony of investiture on the acolyte. “Sister Frekka Krondottir, do you reject the trappings of your former life and identity to devote yourself to a life of servitude to the Holy Farmer and to your king?” he quavered. “I do,” she replied. “Then by your devotion and your faith you do your god and your lord proud. Long may you serve the king, in peacetime and in war, and by your good counsel may our country prosper and may the Holy Harrower smile upon us. “I welcome you, Oracle. May your vision be clear and may you see far. Go forth and serve your god and king!” And with that the congregation broke into applause, and the bells of the Archpantheon at Magna Messor rang out into the autumn afternoon.