Chapter Ten
After my blood, anger does rise
Locked in the cage, where rats crawl by
But who would stroll in to see me that day
My wretched Father, who gave my mother away
Damon sat in a cell in the outer Temple where they kept their prisoners in the days of old gone by. The guard had placed him here hurriedly after they had finally made it in the walls. He lay down bored on the musty, straw-covered floor with little to do now, but at least he got to kill that redheaded bitch, Lindsey before they made the walls. The satisfaction of choking that copperhead wench, with the chains around his wrist, was just too much to resist. Of course, the guard he killed was an accident that he felt little remorse for. That big idiot Salvo shouldn’t have tried to stop him from choking the life out of that demon in disguise.
Damon didn’t mean to hit him hard enough with his black iron manacles to kill him, but the chains were thicker than they looked. Now he was back in a prison cell like he was going anywhere. Everybody outside these Temple walls and most the people inside this newly designated mausoleum wanted to see him dead. He wasn’t exactly a flight risk. If they had just asked for his opinion, he wanted to be behind these bars for once in his short life, for his own safety.
Damon could hear the thudding through the cool, damp stone of the iron reinforced wooden gate, and he shook his head. They could knock all day long on that gate, and it wouldn’t bust through. Part of his education as a child here at the Temple had consisted of the History of the East. Old Matron Suz had lectured him through those sleepy-eyed days, on the construction of this Temple and the great battles that had been fought here. These were not great men like Gras the Bold, who tried to unite to East a hundred and fifty years ago. No, they were merely peasants with pitchforks, screaming obscenities from the streets.
They would not conquer this Temple, but they would starve them out instead. Everyone in this Temple would not die with a weapon in their hand but instead a whimper for food in their mouths. After the walls of Tharpe were built, they never provisioned the Temple for a long term siege, and unfortunately, the first one to starve would be yours truly. He hoped the old tabby striped cat Whiskers died, then maybe at least he would have the chance for a rat or two.
“Or the cat will be the first thing on my menu.” He mused darkly under his breath.
The door at the end opened on rusty hinges with a nail-biting squeal, and he saw all three necromancers enter along with a large built, tall man. They walked, silhouetted by the blinding outside light, he couldn’t make out the fourth person. His mother seemed to be giving the man an unusual amount of respect. Damon's mother respected no man he knew of. Dignitaries across the south were females, and any visiting westerners knew that the East was in the rule of the Temple, matriarchal. He wondered who had made it to the Temple that could be that important. Maybe somebody had come to mediate some peace deal, something that had to do with him. The youth reached up and rubbed his neck, suddenly itchy, as a hemp rope lay there.
As the man drew closer, Damon could see this man's features. He would be damned, but it was like looking in a mirror. The gentleman had the same hawk nose, high prominent cheekbones, and dark hair. The part Damon could see different was the disturbingly red glow of the gentleman’s eyes. Damon chuckled if he could do that, there would be no need to hold people up. They would think he was the-- Damon stopped. No! It couldn’t be, his heart thudded hard in his chest. That being was a myth and he was not real. The man in front of him smiled big, as he examined Damon in turn. Damon began to shake violently and turned to find the chamber pot to be sick.
“Good, I think we fixed that atheism streak dear,” The Grim turned to say with a little laugh to the subdued Bethel, “though I am afraid he is in a bit of shock.”
“So he is your son? I did not think it would be possible without you being um, directly involved.” Jen said a little embarrassed, biting at her lower lip and twisting her hands behind her back.
“Technically since I created second-man and I am married to each of you by a vow more sacred than any you will take on the Overworld, then I was, how did you say it, directly involved. The boy is my seed.” The Grim said confidently. His eyes danced at the humor of Jen's statement. He idly lay a hand on his sword eyeing his son, sending Damon into another round of retching.
“So he will have to be turned reaper like the original seven?” Isobelle asked casually, biting into an apple while eyeing the shaking youth in the corner of the cage. Damon looked up from his knees beside the bucket, chains rattling. His face had turned ashen gray, and the bile dripped from his chin. He was shaking his head in protest but couldn’t find his voice. “I can volunteer if you want husband. I am the youngest and he isn't exactly going anywhere.”
“NO!” Screeched Bethel, finding a voice for him, “I have sacrificed too much for him. I will fight for him.”
She took a low protective stance in front of the cell, her white-knuckled hand on her weapon. Bethel’s eyes were wild with fear and anger, but the words of Isobelle had triggered her. Too long had she protected her son to let anyone else but her punish him.
The Grim turned his full attention to stare hard at his wife with smoldering red eyes. She slowly buckled under the weight of his will. Bethel trembled as she bowed to her knees and he towered over her.
“I am quite aware now of what you have been doing for our son. You even took it upon yourself to decide that you could own something you do not understand.--” He reached out and put his massive hand upon her graying head as a dark light emitted in a halo around her head, as he spoke in low angry tones “--Bethel, I hereby remove your station as Matron of the Temple at Tharpe, but I am not done with you yet. I am very angry with you, for all the trouble in the East is of your doing, it began with you. Matron Gutrid in Port Hope drowned for you. Sister Freed in Farthest Reach was raped and burned outside of the city, because of you. The atrocities can go on, and you will live out the rest of your days correcting them and chasing Chaos out of the East.”
Bethel wailed an inhuman scream, and black flames licked at her body as the call of Grim came upon her. Her armor disintegrated, puddling to the stones around her and by the time her instructions were done being implanted into her soul, she lay naked and blackened on the stone. The smell of burned hair and brimstone permeated the air in the jail. Damon pressed himself back into the corner of the cell, hiding in fear. “Arise, for, from this day, you are no longer my wife.” The Grim declared with a slash of his hand as if to cut the bond of marriage, “You are a new creature, a Zealot of Grim and you shall fight until you are dead, against all aspects of evil. You shall ever be a fanatic for the Order of the universe.”
Jen and Isobelle sobbed as they huddled against the wall. The two necromancers clung to each other in fear before the anger of their husband. Damon sat in the corner of the cell shivering in wide-eyed horror, trying in vain to hide in the darkest corner he could find. This display of power went against everything he ever believed and Damon was on the brink of insanity. His entire life revolved around the belief in the physical world. The life ended and that was it. This display, among the spiderwebs and roaches, had forever changed his views of the possibilities of the universe.
“Jen,” The Grim said softly, motioning to his cowering wife near the cage door, “come forward.” Jen let go of Isobelle to reluctantly walk forward softly to stand beside the naked huddled figure of her former matron laying on the floor in a pile of ash and crying. Jen looked down at Bethel in fear. She had known about Bethel’s actions, her infidelity and had done nothing. She was an accomplice. Surely this was her fate too. The Grim laid a hand gently on her left hand, and a warmth filled with knowledge and power inundated her. A gentle white light haloed her in mirror of the event that took Bethel's power from her. The Grim started to speak in loving tones.
“Jen, to you, I promise you are the most beloved of Tharpe. Promise to fulfill the role of protector and shepherd. I won’t lie; I know the Temple will fall. But it is a building, rebuild it, promise.” His red eyes bore into her teary green eyes.
“I promise, they can take this cold stone fortress, but they cannot take the Temple.” She promised, turning to her sister, “Isobelle you will be my second. We need to deal with that prisoner. He is just going to take food.”
“Just give him an exit out of the Temple,” Isobelle replied with a sardonic grin, making walking motions off a wall with her fingers. Her fist came down with a resounding meaty smack into her fist that echoed into the darkness. The torches sputtered in silence as Damon's breathing quickened again in the realization of the necromancer's answer to him. He grabbed the bars as he backed in tighter to the corner where he stood.
“Yes, we do need to deal with him,” The Grim said with a smile. He gestured at the door, and it opened. He walked in to stand before his human son. Damon gathered his scattered wits and stood up from the bars, trembling before the Grim. His iron chains clanked, echoing against the stone walls but he stood as tall as he could, shivering in the damp cold. The impressions left from the bars could be clearly seen against his bareback and his face remained drained of color but he stood yet firm.
“Oh don’t worry I don’t need another reaper at the moment boy,” the Grim smiled reaching out to tussle his short dark hair as if he were a little boy of only five winters. Damon flinched away, glaring indignantly at the Grim. He was standing with as much dignity as one could if you stood naked before your creator.
“So what do you need with me, oh long lost father of mine” Damon snapped in a shaky voice, trying to sound bold and sarcastic but it came out more like a mouse squeak.
“You will show the creator more respect-“ Jen started to rebuke Damon for his insolence against the All-Father when Grim held his hand up for her silence her wrath. The Grim cocked his head ever so slightly and smiled before continuing.
“No, he is right to question where I have been. After all the atrocities he has seen committed in my name, I am surprised he wits enough to question me.” The Grim said gently, half to Jen and half to Damon. He focused his red eyes thoughtfully on his son and then spoke, “Damon, I did not even know of your existence and count fate lucky that I didn’t or else I would have slit your infant throat myself before you received your soul.--” Damon backed up against the wall, getting tangled into some chains attached to the mortar there. He was trying somehow to see a way to defend himself against this murderous immortal, who was talking of slitting his throat, while naked. “--But that would be a good thing Damon, the Voice of Order gave me a prophecy about you.”
The Grim said as he turned around and placed his broad back to the smaller version of him at the end of the cell with cool indifference. He gave a snap of his fingers, and the rivets in Damon’s manacles grew red and melted out, but the bands remained a black, cold iron. Damon released his chains with a rattle that echoed around the dark cell and rubbed the raw spots that had formed on his ankles and wrist. The youth stared in wonder at the powerful being who could perform such powerful feats. It is not that Damon had never seen or killed sorcerers. On the contrary, it was his standard practice to identify and kill them first but never had he seen one perform powerful spells like they were Fifth Circle cantrips. His brain screamed for him to run while the coast was clear, but his heart wanted the answers that it had always yearned for. The Grim's voice drew him in further into a careful trap being laid for the young man as the immortal soothed the frightened beast inside him.
“I hear you like to prey upon others, hunt them. It’s not about the money, is it? You have quite an enterprise going here or had should I say.” The Grim corrected himself almost forgetfully and then continued on as he turned to give him a sarcastic smile, “You had quite the life, why you were even going to get married before you got arrested. Did I get that right?” The Grim talked like he was talking to an old friend in a tavern. In that casual, off-handed way, instead of speaking as they were in a urine drenched cell to a condemned son. Damon felt the tension rolling off him like water. He wondered if it was another trick like his manacles and he was trying to resist. The Grim wanted something, and Damon wanted to be on his guard to know what. The youth was a master manipulator himself and steeled himself against the efforts to drain his will. He located a sharp stone and pressed on it, wincing in pain. The Grim glanced his direction, nodding in approval.
“I don't know you tell me. You seem well informed. Where did you hear all this?” Damon asked, silently cursing the sharp rock. “No one has seen you in near two hundred years that I know of.”
The Grim's red eyes flared a little as he stared at his son, “I have been around, I try not to make a big spectacle when I am on the Overworld. I am a caregiver to both worlds, not a god. It tends to be easier when people are not tripping over themselves, bowing, and doing all the ‘you grace's’ things.” The Grim smirked as he walked forward and laid a hand over Damon’s black eyes and muttered a few words. Damon screeched loudly and reeled backward blindly, running into the back wall and falling to the ground with a fleshy smack. The young man got to his feet, swearing curses that would make most soldiers look like the silent monks of Drevalin.
“Damn! What in the name of all the demons and reapers did you do to me,” Damon screamed angrily, holding the injuries he had sustained from the day before. He held up a hand angrily to the Grim showing him the blood smeared on it, “I had just got them to stop bleeding. Shit that hurt!”
The Grim eyed his hand speculatively and shrugged, waving at the bloodied hand before him. The immortal's eyes gleamed with humor as he reached up to give his son a playful tussle of his short, black hair before patting Damon's head.
“I helped a power along that is your inheritance. So you could meet the being who told me all about your exploits and past.” The Grim was smiling a silly grin, waiting to see if Damon could guess at any particular person who would know the things that the Grim had mentioned. As Damon stared at him, bewildered, the Grim gestured with a small flourish of his hand, to directly behind the young man. “Try not to faint, my boy, but this is Rascus, your biological seed. I don't believe you will recognize him. Your worldly father has lost some weight since you last saw him, I do believe.” The immortal chuckled a little, as he continued, “You could say he was the tool and I am the Father.” Damon’s eyes tried to focus on the point where the Grim had gestured as he turned. His eyes were no longer black, but in the center of the pupils, a prick of red now danced, like a flame on the end of a candle. A bone finger reached and tapped him on the shoulder slightly as the skeleton sought his attention.
Damon's mouth gaped open and closed rapidly as he backed up. The apparition gave him a slight wave and a familiar voice echoed forth from its throat. “Hello Damon, it is good you can see me again after all these years. I wish I were in better shape though. I seem to be falling apart. He already had to put me back together once.--” The reaper jerked a thumb at the Grim, and the forearm fell off clattering to the floor. “--For the love of all the damn demons, Grim can’t you fix this!”
The skeleton fell to its knees, making an awful racket, that echoed around the prison, as he attempted to reattach his missing limb. Jen and Isobelle could no longer hold back the laughter as the reaper cursed and complained about the abuse of power. Damon started to sway as his world slowly fell apart. An hour ago, immortals, reapers, demons, they had all been part of a myth in his little world. Up was up and down was down, and death was final. His sanity slowly unwound and his black eyes rolled up in the backside of his head. His naked body slowly sank back against the stone wall and the to the littered, dirty floor with a thunk.
The reaper looked over from his work, “Um, was that supposed to happen?”
“Most of the time, if it does not, they are probably a sorcerer.” Jen said sympathetically, “Almost every single aspiring necromancer faints when they first meet the Grim or a reaper. It does something to one's sanity.”
The reaper muttered as he fit the rest of the digits on his hand and stood with a rattle, looking expectantly towards his Master. The Grim grinned widely as he stared down at his collapsed son huddled on the floor. He reached over gripping the reaper on the shoulder and giving him a jarring shake.
“Good job guys,” he congratulated them as the reaper grasped desperately to the nearest wall for support, “He is the wolf, who is not a wolf. Please have him taken from here and dressed. He needs to be in the war council in an hour.”
“What do we do with Bethel, Sire,” asked the new Matron, looking down at her friend of seventeen years. Bethel was huddled on her hands and knees, whimpering to herself in feral tones. Jen and Isobelle bent and helped her rise to her feet unsteadily. They dare not brush her off nor show sympathy to one who had been personally punished by their Husband. They stood at her elbow, grasping her blackened arms tightly, ignoring their friend's naked breast, hanging unglamorous, on display before them. There would be no move to clothe her unless commanded, walks of atonement were not uncommon within the Temple. Though she had been a friend once, now she was condemned by the All-father.
“She is still one of our warriors--” The Grim said softly, his eyes looking gently at his once wife. Jen let out a relieved breath as both of the necromancers relaxed their grips. “--just an elite one who has a special job that will end in a special way. Dress her in heavier armor and give her weapons. She needs to be in the war council too. One hour Folks, One hour in the Judgment Hall.” The Grim repeated as he was walking away, his footsteps echoing off into the darkness the enclosed him rapidly.
“Where are you going?” Isobelle called at him as he reached the door, only a bare shadow of his broad shoulder's visible in the flickering torchlight.
“I need to find three more people of prophecy.” The Grim said pulling the protesting door open and disappeared into a rush of bright light and cold wind. He blinked his red eyes as they adjusted to the mid-winter sunlight outside and listened to the men around him. The sound of orders being shouted and an occasion twang of bowstring from the wall as his eyes cleared. The Grim thought for a moment and decided to trust an instinctive feeling he had. Mounting a nearby stairwell, he carefully crunched some crusty ice underfoot as he scaled the stone parapet.
As the Grim walked he felt pulled along the wall to the south. The All-Father didn’t know who he was looking for, but the immortal trusted fate's will. The voice had never let him down in the past and he trusted that balance and Order would see the needed few gathered this day. In one hour, they would discuss how they would pull off this impossible fight. Never had he seen mortals aligned in a more impossible fight but unless there was direct interference from Chaos here, he was not allowed to do anything about the events as they transpired. These restrictions always left the Grim feeling more powerless than powerful. People called him the All-Father and Omnipotent but here he could not even stop a siege. Even an apprentice sorcerer carried more of an ability to affect the outcome of this fight than he did. The Grim didn’t want to tell them, but he sensed the power of a great practitioner here and there was not a thing their immortal protector could do about it. Even if they were not outnumbered four to one, the Sorcerer tilted the odds twenty to one.
There was no taking the Great City of the Lake back, but there was the option of a fighting retreat. He walked along the tops of the wall, the cold winds of winter blowing in his face as he smelled the musky smell of Lake Dim. The Grim looked out between two merlons at the tossing lake in the distance. The winter sun did little to warm his skin in the frigid sun. The Grim looked lovingly out at his world. It was near his birthday, oh what was he this year. Five hundred and fifty thousand years old, he shook his head, sometimes he lost all track of time. It was easy for him, only on the Overworld did time matter. In all other Planes of existence, this thing the mortals called time, it just did not exist. Sometimes, he would go centuries and then need to consult one of his servants to find the date. The passage of this mysterious force would march on, both of them seemingly unaware of each other. Well, if the prophecy was right, that harmony would end and both he and time would become all too well acquainted on this trip. Up ahead, the parapet turned into the battlements and continued around the entire wall. It was here, near the gatehouse, he saw a group of soldiers pointing at something beyond the wall and yelling at each other. There was pushing and shoving as they tried to decide who would be responsible for what was happening.
The Grim picked up his long strides to see what the commotion was being caused by. Over the tops of the soldier's heads, The Grim could see three people being tied to eight-foot wooden stakes in a bare courtyard just outside of bow shot. Several archers stood at the ready, with arrows knocked, awaiting orders from the standing corporals. The woman had been beaten and looked haggard, the younger male was bleeding from nose and mouth, and the giant of a man had been stabbed once in a non-vital spot. The people around him seemed to know who these poor souls were and they argued over the course of actions that should be taken to ensure the safety of the plighted prisoners. A man in plain farmer's clothes and another man, in more opulent clothing, stepped forward. A few arrows loosed but fell short, clattering to the stones a few paces before the pair. The man in the farmer's clothes held up a finger and shook it slowly at the wall, pointing meaningfully at the prisoners. When he spoke, the Grim felt a surge of power, marking the gentleman standing next to him as the sorcerer that the Grim had felt when he had arrived. The Grim's eyes narrowed as he stared at the proceedings.
“I have Faldo, Son of Victor merchant of Doldrom. My own disowned daughter Cariline, Betrothed of Damon, and Marlin, Blacksmith and Beloved of Bethel, Mother Matron of the Temple. For one night they will sit on display for all to see and in the morning, we shall execute them publicly to show all that we do to any associated with The Grim or the Temple. We are here to create a new way and new land that is truly free, and this is the manner of our resolve. We care not of relation or status; we care only for freedom from tyranny and false beliefs. All who renounce both belief in the Grim and the Temple and swear fealty to me will be spared; otherwise, all will be cleansed to the baby, no quarter will be given.” The man finished and backed away, smiling again, a long leering smile, at the Temple he meant to throw down.
The Grim glared at the man and then looked at the prisoners again; there was just something about them. He could feel something about the auburn-haired female, smell some small hormones. He thudded to a stop momentarily. This battered and beaten woman was the betrothed of his son. Could she possibly be carrying his grandson child? He groaned inwardly. So that’s what the prophecy meant, bearer of a great line. He wondered if his son was even aware that he was a father but no time for that right now. This complicated things, not only did they have to wage a winning battle to escape a tomb but they had to do so to rescue three people too. If that was her then the disciple he needed was with her and so was the man of constant sorrow. They would be the faithful who would return Order to this continent. They would return him to his Judgment Throne, or Chaos would reign. He hoped they would be a little more understanding than Damon. What would fate be like in the hands of the atheist, that thought made him shudder.
Grim arrived at the Judgment Hall to find everyone waiting on him. The Matron Chair had been removed, and a long oaken table had been brought in with a map of Tharpe spread out on it. Wallace, Thomas, Bethel, Jen, Isobelle, Damon, and Thad were already talking around it. They were pointing to different sections of town and the defensible possibilities. The Grim stepped into the hall without so much drawing the eye of Jen. He relished at this moment. It was not often he got to observe his creations in their element. In moments like this, he would be able to see them and all their glory, the way he designed them to be. He leaned back on the wall, letting his red eyes fall on each and every face, taking in the emotions that he saw there. Hope, love, rage, despair, anger, second-man were filled with such passion. Maybe that is what drove him that fate-filled night to mate with his original wives.
Lost in his musings, he decided to sit and listen. Let them have their hopes. Maybe one of them would have a good head on their shoulders and would recognize the situation for its worth. The All-Father did not want to have to dash such beautiful hope against the rocks of eternal despair.
“If we can get out in the night and burn the food stores around town that will help things along faster,” Thomas suggested pointing to some silos on the map on Farmerton Way.
“No,” Wallace rejected it solidly, his shaking head sending his black beard sailing. “The only thing you do then is make them desperate, and desperate men become unpredictable. That is more dangerous than any army in the world.”
“You know,” Jen said admiringly, “Bethel made the right choice in elevating you over the Garrisons, Wallace. What would you suggest.”
“Really Matron?” Wallace asked. Jen nodded with a serious look, “First, we need to put weapons in the hands of any person that can stand upright and have the strength to wield them.”
Jen nodded encouragingly, Her heart-shaped face bowed in deep thought. “Even if it is a cudgel that should swell our numbers from two hundred living to what, four hundred and fifty--” Wallace nodded, “--That makes things a little more even defensible speaking. What next.”
The Grim knew he would not have to be the one to shoot down everyone’s best intentions. This man, this brilliant commander before him, understood just how dire the situation was. He shifted his back on the rough, cold stone and gave the short, stocky man his full attention. The Grim had faith that this Commander had his dashing club out and ready to strike at the heart of hope itself.
“That’s the part you don’t want to hear Matron. I am a soldier, a man of simple thought, so I look at plain hard facts. I know our food stocks can’t hold us a month. We are fighting a losing fight. The only way for us to win is to lose. We need to burn Tharpe to the ground.”
Everybody started to argue at once, but Grim shouted them down in his deep baritone and nodded for Wallace to continue knowing he was on the right track, “Tonight when they are not expecting it, we use those fire arrows and start lighting roofs on fire. It will take a while; things have been damp. We will need the Infantry on the walls to protect the archers. At first, they might try to attack in mass. We hold the advantage in that fight. After the city really starts to catch, they will abandon the fight. The people out there want the Temple gone but the city to remain, so we burn it to the ground. They will be so busy trying to put it out they won’t try to stop us from leaving. On our way out, we light fire cask, as many as we have, and roll them down streets as we go. Then we lock the gates when we leave, trapping everyone else inside. Let them have the burning city, all to themselves” the Master Sergeant said with a vicious smile.
The Grim applauded approvingly, “I like this man, I really do. All though there is one hitch. While we are all being pyromaniacs tonight, We will have to rescue my grandchild.” The Grim gave a long look to the bewildered Damon.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
