Arm Of Galemar (Book 2) Read online

  “We are partly to blame,” Hilliard added. “We were too trusting of strangers.”

  “The city is full of strangers these days,” Santon continued. “I am sorry your man was injured first thing.” He spoke directly to Dietrik and the others. “But put that behind you. You’ll have a bounty to help you forget such troubles over the next month! The trials for the contestants are the festival’s main attraction, naturally, but events and competitions for all lower citizens will be held every day. Prizes and wealth will be yours for the winning!”

  “Thank you,” Marik replied simply for the group, irritated by the baron’s casual dismissal of their stature. It contained the clear insinuation that the nobles were merely allowing the people of Galemar to intrude into their personal domain.

  Argen departed for the couches without saying farewell after his cold stare fell on each in Hilliard’s group, the frostiest saved for Shalla. The man must be an agnostic, Marik concluded, or one who nursed a deep dislike for priests in general. Or perhaps he was simply a woman-hater.

  “I do hope you have a better time of it during the rest of your stay in our city. It truly is the finest in Galemar!” With that, Baron Sestion bowed. He wandered off only to stop and greet a new group who had finished with their registrars.

  “A nice enough chap,” Dietrik mused. “Though I expect he’s judging up his son’s competition on the sly.”

  “Sounds about right,” Kerwin agreed. “Before we move on, I’m going to ask around. I’ll be back.”

  Kerwin drifted away to study the plaques mounted on each door. The remaining five congregated around the mahogany desk, sipping from cups they filled from water pitchers. Hilliard renewed questioning Shalla about the intricacies of her order while Landon checked the knot tying Dietrik’s sling. With nothing else to do, Marik leaned against the wall to watch people pass as they waited for Kerwin to return.

  * * * * *

  Marik gazed in awe at the Cathedral of the Eternal Twelve. He wished he had not squandered the term ‘massive’ to silently describe the Central Guild Hall. That structure had been large, but it could probably fit within a single wing of the cathedral.

  Stretching forever, it consumed the entire side of Temple Square, the largest square in Thoenar. Eight major roads emptied onto the square, with three separate fountains surrounding statuary. Marik guessed the centermost fountain would require three full minutes to walk completely around. Even the air seemed different, containing a sharp odor reminiscent of rain-swelled pools that was not in the least unpleasant. Standing in the square felt like standing in an open field with flat stone underfoot rather than hay stalks. The party passed through the cathedral’s enormous twin entry archways and mingled with those who had come to worship. Roughly half the kingdom, at Marik’s estimate.

  The central interior yawned in a massive cavern. Marik strained his neck. He could hardly see the ceiling despite the afternoon sunlight streaming through the intricate stained-glass windows. Each of the accepted gods claimed a wing leading off from the central hall, forming a horseshoe. Towering stone arches decorated with intricate carvings, twelve in all, represented each of the Eternal Twelve. Statues representing the deity whose temple lay beyond flanked each arch. Six or seven carts could pass side-by-side through the entryways.

  Marik looked into the nearest wing to the left and glimpsed two-hundred pew rows in four rows fifty. Tapestries hung on the stone walls, depicting saints struggling to help the less fortunate. The wing was astoundingly large, easily capable of holding two or three thousand worshipers for services.

  Twelve wings fanning out around the horseshoe foyer needed enough space for an entire city block. And that excluded the buildings further back, off limits to the general public.

  When Marik had explained the additional destination that morning, he’d hoped the others would not be too upset. Instead, taking him by surprise, they all fell in with the idea. His companions had never struck him as being religious fellows, and the lack of temples around Kingshome had never produced the grumbles that the kitchen running short on bread rolls could. Still, he reflected, we are all of us mercenaries. We take our opportunities when they come, and try not to think about them when they don’t.

  Hilliard in particular had been enthusiastic. On the road he had been deprived of his regular observance. Now, it seemed, he intended to make up for lost time.

  Shalla left them to their own devices, uninterested in whether or not Marik actually did anything after the trouble she had taken to shame him into it. She headed further into the grand hall and entered a left-side arch down the way.

  Few people cluttered the centermost aisle down the hall. They tended to head straight for the archway leading to their particular temple. Most stayed closer to the walls, which left the middle free. Marik took his time. He slowly walked to the opposite end, staying in the middle and studying the Twelve’s major temples.

  The first chapel to his left from the entrance, the one he had first peered into, was obviously Sheirleon’s, the Goddess of Goodness. Of the Twelve, She was one of the two largest. Correspondingly, Her congregation matched Her status, having the most followers. Her wing, facing the street, also showcased an entire stained-glass window-filled wall. The artists behind its creation had succeeded in capturing entire scenes within the panes, depicting moments from traditional stories Marik had heard every Summerdawn festival during his youth.

  Inside Sheirleon’s chapel the floor changed from stone to tan parquet wood. He had the oddest feeling that light emanated from the floor, the sun shinning from below as much as through the windows. The entire wing spoke of brightness, and Marik could sense the pull that drew men to Her faith.

  Priests in white robes milled around the dais at the far end. None apparently had duties that needed tending. Sheirleon’s services would run later, leaving Her priests available to whoever might have need for them. Several spoke privately with worshipers.

  Across the way, in the first wing on the right side, Marik found Her counterpart, Vernilock, God of Evil. Though He commanded a far smaller congregation around Galemar, He was the other side of Sheirleon’s coin. Seen by many as the mother/father gods, it made sense that their chapels should be the first in the cathedral.

  His walk brought him to the next pair. Statues of Amit, God of Peace, flanked the left archway. Directly across, mirroring His partner god, Marik quickly recognized Ercsilon, his own God of Conflict. He would stop there later but he wanted to see the other statues first. Their stone was more than simple material from which a likeness had been crafted. The statues somehow embodied the very deity they represented. While he gazed at Amit’s serene features, Marik felt at peace, the worry over his responsibilities as Hilliard’s protector fading.

  Either the stone sculptors had been exceptionally gifted or the deities’ presence had settled in their church’s stronghold. Whatever the cause, it drew Marik further on.

  The next to his left was Hall’Kyon, Goddess of Prosperity, matched across the way by Shiconn, God of Cunning. These two were odd in that they complimented each other while at the same time opposing their partner. Perhaps all the partner deities did so likewise but it was most obvious with this pair.

  A curious mix loitered around Shiconn’s archway. These were either well-to-do men in finer clothing or scraggly fellows who could have stood a visit to a good seamstress. Marik always found this interesting. Merchants and thieves, natural enemies if ever there were any, both paying service to the same god. While the merchants prayed for cleverness in their business dealings, the thieves knelt nearby, praying for ingenuity in their schemes to rob the merchants. Shiconn’s statue hinted at slyness with true intentions concealed behind a stone mask.

  Shalla’s archway was the next on the left, revealed as the chapel to Urliel, God of Knowledge. That she chose to be a follower of His came as no surprise. Urliel commanded one of the smallest congregations in the Twelve, tending to attract only the scholarly type, as Marik saw her. To the
right was His partner goddess, Fate. The faces on Her statues were blank, surfaces as smooth as the wall. Her true name remained forever hidden from the world so men called Her by Her domain. She would have commanded the fewest followers were it not for the archway beyond Hers.

  Though that archway remained intact, it had not been maintained. Many cracks webbed the stone. Only broken bases remained where once had stood twin statues. The archway had been sealed with stone centuries ago, the hatred toward the Unnamed God driving the cathedral keepers, devoted to all Twelve simultaneously, to block access to His wing. All sense of a higher presence, pulling at him from the other archways, was absent from this one.

  Marik stared at the sealed archway. It had only been left intact as a sign of contempt. He searched his memories for stories regarding the Unnamed God. To his surprise he realized he hardly knew any. Barely any mention had been made in the many songs he’d listened to at Puarri’s Tavern.

  As best he could recall, the Unnamed God had once owned a name and been worshipped alongside the other eleven. Then an ill wind had blown. Exactly what was never clear. The fragments he remembered suggested the god had gone mad; a terrifying concept. A war waged between the gods, the madness of the Unnamed God granting Him the power to stand against the others. Or perhaps it had been nothing like that at all. Marik could testify firsthand on how minstrels mangled the original facts.

  The lyrics he struggled for were vague to begin with. A hero had finally succeeded in killing Him in a faraway land. Mostly myth, Marik knew, but that was the problem with bards. No laws required the songs they wrote to be accurate, or even truthful. Since he recalled no other references, he suspected the history’s validity.

  But no one could deny the ages-old, sealed archway. Whatever had actually happened, it left the people with a searing hatred so vile it led them to destroy everything down to His name in mortal world.

  Marik, curiosity mildly piqued, glanced to the left so he could see who this god’s counterpart had been. Lor’Velath, Goddess of Magic. Seeing Her wing soured his mood considerably. If Tollaf were standing there beside him, and Marik were struggling to decide which god to call his own, he knew exactly what the old man would push him to do. Just as well there weren’t any temples around Kingshome after all, else the chief mage would be harping on him to leave Ercsilon behind as often as he bitched about Marik wasting his time in sword practice.

  He wasted no further speculation on the Unnamed God’s nature. The last pair waited at the horseshoe’s far end, their archways located on the wall’s curve. Nearly side-by-side, which seemed strangely fitting, the chapel for Eross’Drose, Goddess of Love, occupied the left side while Alon’Vule, Goddess of Vengeance, claimed the right. Between the two wings, broad doors were set in the wall, neither marked for the public’s benefit. They led deeper into the cathedral to parts unknown by outsiders.

  The love goddess’ statues tantalized, yet were also strangely motherly and matronly at the same time. It was as though two different sculptures rested on the same stone base. Each existed inside the other at the same time.

  Marik’s eyes blurred until he stepped away, returning to Ercsilon’s wing and noticing his companions. Hilliard followed the left wall around. So far he had made his way to Urliel’s archway where he stood before the statue depicting an elderly man, speaking to it. He held his purse, and Marik noticed for the first time that set within the statues’ bases were donation boxes. Secured by an iron padlock, the boxes were hardly noticeable, the stonework design having incorporated them.

  Hilliard finished his conversation with the stone representation then walked further to Lor’Velath’s wing. One archway in the other direction, Kerwin did much the same. The box into which he dropped his donation belonged to Hall’Kyon. Marik smiled. Of course the gambler would naturally be as attracted to the Goddess of Prosperity as to Ercsilon. Landon was not in sight, so he must have entered the chapels. Dietrik hovered in the crowd within paces of Hilliard.

  At the God of Conflict’s wing, Marik noticed a service proceeded. He decided to stay outside after all. Only sixty or so worshipers sat listening to the lone priest wearing a stole that was black on the left side and white on the other. Pews were absent from this wing. Straight-backed chairs without arms took their place, all arranged in an intimate circle around the minister. The floor was of a different type of stone than the central cathedral’s. Brown sandstone cut into equal sized blocks formed the flooring.

  Massive tapestries depicted many scenes. Many were of men in battle, as would be expected. Others were of a much simpler nature. Men in conversation gesturing firmly with opposing viewpoints were presented in startlingly realistic stitch. A different hanging work showed a fire struggling to stay alive in the midst of a raging storm. Around a large table, groups of men in separate dress argued vehemently, the subject having to do with the maps strewn across the surface. On the far wall behind the standing priest hung the simplest of them all; half white, half black. All these scenes served to remind that Ercsilon was no barbarian war god, but had dominion over conflict, whatever its form, and only through conflict did change result.

  Marik remained outside. He sought out the donation box in the statue’s base. A few coppers would not do. It would probably insult the god rather than pay tribute. He had several years worth of worship to make up, and a great deal of piety to represent. His purse bounced on his palm while he considered.

  Most of the silver from selling his cottage in Tattersfield still remained, as did the major portion of his wages through two-and-a-half years on contract with the Crimson Kings. With a month in Thoenar ahead, considering all the possible need for coin that entailed along with Dietrik’s desire for possible luxury shopping, he withdrew ten silvers, hesitated, then pulled out another pair. He fit them through the slot one by one. As he did, he thought loudly toward the statues.

  Most priests I know say it doesn’t matter if the words are spoken aloud, so let’s keep this between the two of us. I’ve managed to come through two years of fighting as a mercenary, and I’m still kicking. I’ve had close calls, but guys like Hayden can’t say that anymore. I doubt I’ll live a long life in this line of work so I won’t ask you to always let me be on the winning side. I’m not sure what to ask for, except I hope you hear me when I talk to you on the battlefield. Tollaf keeps trying to turn me away from my lifestyle, so maybe that’s earned me a handful of faith credits. I try my best with my sword instead of resting on my Class within the Kings. I guess I can ask you for that, then. Help me advance through my training until I’m worthy of being a true B Class warrior. Help me live up to the rank Torrance dropped on me.

  Marik expected no response as the last thought accompanied the last coin into the dark interior, and the world lived up to his expectations for a change. If Ercsilon heard his thoughts, the god gave no tangible evidence of it. But he felt a little better. Lighter in a way he had not expected for having thrown away twelve silvers. He remembered the days of scraping for coppers to buy medicines for his mother. Twelve silvers then would have seemed like the wealth of kings.

  And I suppose it is. The wages of a Crimson King. An emperor of the battlefield, dripping crimson blood from hand and blade.

  Marik returned to the hall’s less traveled center and watched Hilliard circle his way around the cathedral. Kerwin joined him while he waited, full of good cheer. The rest gradually rejoined them until Hilliard finally stood before Vernilock’s archway.

  The last of Hilliard’s words reached Marik’s ears when he crossed over to the youth. “…and so I ask that you turn your gaze from my friends and family. Please dampen the greater evils throughout the world and only charge the necessary evils to those who may bear their load. This, I pray.”

  He dropped a ten-copper coin through the slot. Marik commented, “A lot of people in my hometown skipped Him during Summerdawn festival. Judging by the hollow sound from your coin, I’d guess most city people do to.”

  A negative headshake acc
ompanied Hilliard’s response. “I can understand why they would, but Vernilock should not be ignored. Some evil is needed in the world, lest how can acts of goodness and kindness have value? With His control over evil itself, who better to prevent it from befalling the innocent?”

  “I was only mentioning it. I think we’re all done. We’d better start on our way back. If we’re lucky, we might return before dark.”

  In the clogged streets, the progress they made was as slow as Marik feared.

  “We’ll probably need to stay tonight with you after all,” he said to Shalla, injecting the comment with a requesting tone.

  “It is no burden. You are welcome to stay as long as you need to.”

  Hilliard thanked her several times until they reentered the rough district the Faith of the One Soul maintained its order house in. Landon and Marik kept a sharp eye on the environment as they searched for that morning’s street rat. Despite their caution, the group arrived hale and whole. The two glanced at each other, then simultaneously shrugged. Wherever the thugs who had chased them through the night were, they were elsewhere and out of their hair.

  Yet Marik still reclaimed the chair near the back door after the evening meal, waiting for what, he knew not.

  Chapter 09

  Shalla brought Marik a steaming mug. The others, tired from fording the packed streets, rested in their rooms on the next floor. Landon would take Marik’s place by the door at the midnight bell.

  He inhaled the aroma of mulled cider. The hot liquid scorched his tongue. She pulled a chair closer to his.

  “You seem preoccupied. Are these ruffians still worrying you?”

  “No, not so much. Landon didn’t notice anyone waiting for us when we returned. I didn’t either, but Landon has a better eye for this sort of thing.”

  “Then what is bothering you?” She toyed with the brush-like end of her braids.