Broken Rule | Chapter 37
This post is chapter thirty-seven of my not-previously-published epic fantasy novel Broken Rule, which I'm serializing here on Steemit.
The story so far:
Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
Learned Marek walked into Kubara warily. Order had been largely restored to the city, but there were still gangs of robbers and thugs about, especially on the outskirts of town. Petro carried his large axe openly, ready for any trouble, and that scared most of the trouble away. Trapper stuck to the shadows, either ranging ahead or falling behind, as was his way.
As Marek approached the ruins of the cathedral, his heart seemed to fall from his chest. In tears, he approached Bishop Vasili, chained like an animal to the church doors. “Excellency, what happened?”
“Marek, you've come back! Oh, but I've needed you so much. So much, Marek. It has all gone wrong, and I don't know what else to do.”
“Excellency, tell me what happened here.”
“It was Duke Gavril. He calls himself King Gavril, now, but the crown was placed on his head by a demon straight from the pits of hell. Marek, I have always held strong to the teachings of the Blessed Book, but I never thought I would see the minions of evil with my own eyes.” Tears streamed from his eyes, and his voice became thick. “A demon has crowned our king, and you can see the kind of king he is.” He pointed to the rubble of the cathedral. “He aims to take us all to damnation with him.”
“No, Excellency. I have come to put a stop to that,” said Learned Marek. He crossed his fingers so that a rune would form as he closed his fist and took hold of the chain. After a moment he released the chain and, where his hand had gripped it, the links turned red hot and broke apart. “I'll be back, once I have dealt with this fiend.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you. I prayed for this.”
“I carry out the will of the Most Holy,” said Marek, his face hardening. He turned and started marching toward the palace. Petro had to jog to keep up with him.
As Marek approached the palace, he began to pray quietly under his breath. “Most Holy, give me strength. Most Holy, guide my actions. Most Holy, I am your hand upon the world.” The guards at the gates moved to stop him, but he raised his hands to them, his fingers forming the patterns that were so familiar to him now, the words of the books of magic as close to him as the words of the Blessed Book had always been. The guards burst into flames and fell screaming to the ground. Petro carefully avoided their flailing bodies as he followed Marek toward the throne room.
The palace of Kubara could be defended from attackers, if the occupants knew to prepare. The large hallways from the grand entrance to the throne room could be closed off with large doors and gates, and guards could be positioned strategically. But there were no armies for hundreds of miles besides Gavril's own. They feared no attack, so the doors and gates remained open, ready to allow petitioners to get to the king without delay. Gavril's guards hadn't expected a single priest could be any sort of threat, and now they scrambled to meet it. As guards ran toward him in ones and twos they met the same grisly fate as those at the doors. As they saw what was becoming of their fellows, Gavril's men were less and less eager to confront the priest as he marched deeper and deeper into the palace.
Marek strode into the throne room. King Gavril sat on his throne, startled at the new arrival. Various nobles stood about the periphery of the room, engaged in their own conversations until the commotion of Marek's arrival interrupted them. Marek noticed a regal woman in Liatian attire, perhaps Princess Danijela herself, in the far corner of the room conversing with a dazzlingly beautiful woman in a blue dress. Influential counts and barons were huddled together, presumably plotting how to best profit from the new order. Foreign dignitaries were there as well, scheming with the rest. The atrocities that Marek had witnessed could not have been accomplished without the acquiescence of these people, but the man on the throne must be dealt with first.
“You would cast the Most Holy out of Tarkannan?” demanded Marek, his fists curled tightly. “You have not the power. You are as nothing in the eyes of the Most Holy, and your blasphemies shall not take root here.”
Gavril snorted at him in disgust. “I'm sorry, little priest, but I don't have time for you. Go join your bishop at his temple, and see for yourself whether I care what the Most Holy thinks.”
“I have seen what you have done to the cathedral. But the Most Holy does not live in buildings. He lives in our hearts, and nothing you can do can banish Him from there. Furthermore, I have seen the evidence of your crimes in Haverwood. Now you will burn as they burned.”
He held his wrists together and twisted his fingers into an ancient symbol of fire, pointed toward the king. A lance of white hot flame burst forth, hurtling toward the throne. Gavril leaped aside just in time to avoid it. “Get him, you fools!” Gavril shouted to his men. One of Gavril's guards tried to take Marek from behind, but Petro cut the attacker down with his axe.
Gavril scrambled to his feet and started to run for a small corridor to the side of the throne room that led to his private chambers. “You cannot run from your judgment by the Most Holy!” Marek screamed, pointing his hands again. Another lance of flame burst forth, and Marek pivoted his entire body, following the king's path. The king avoided the attack, but Marek sprayed fiery death on all in the way. Some had the presence of mind to dive or scramble out of the way, but dozens of noblemen were sliced through the chest as if some giant had taken a knife to them. Women's dresses went up in flames as they struggled to escape the heat, their screams filling the cavernous room. Knights died with their swords still in their scabbards, too amazed at what their eyes were seeing to know how to respond.
Marek realized he needed to change tactics. His spell was powerful, but Gavril refused to stand and accept his fate, moving too quickly for Marek to catch with his intense narrow beam of destruction. Marek ran to the corridor Gavril had slipped down, and raised only his right hand this time. “You won't get away. Your soul is marked, you will feel the fires of the Most Holy!” Flame sprung from his hand, bursting forth into a deadly conflagration that spread to fill the hallway as it raced after the fleeing king. Gavril looked back over his shoulder for a moment, and Marek saw the fire reflected in his eyes before he was engulfed. As the flames died away, Marek saw that the object of his ire had finally fallen, the corpse burned almost to nothing in the flames that had sprung from his hand. The flames had taken their toll on the palace as well. The walls of the corridor buckled, and the roof collapsed.
Queasiness took hold of Marek's stomach as he contemplated the lives he had just taken, but he pushed the feeling aside. His actions had followed the will of the Most Holy, as the words had directed him. He couldn't allow sentimentality to sway him from doing what the Most Holy required. Marek turned to face the assembled nobles, some staring in horror, some trying to extinguish the fires Marek had left in his wake, some tending to those who had been burned. “Are there others who will submit to the judgment of the Most Holy? Others who conspired in Gavril's crimes?”
Some began to protest, but one terrified young woman pointed at Natasza and declared, “It was her! She is the demon! She is the one that speaks against the Most Holy! Save us from her, Learned!”
Natasza smiled and strutted seductively toward the now vacant throne, her demonic visage returning. “It's true. I make no secret of my demonic nature, unlike this one who dresses like a priest but brings hellfire in his wake. Is he more deserving of your worship than I?”
“Your lies will find no more purchase here, demon!” shouted Marek, but as he brought up his hands to produce more fire, the ground seemed to shift underneath him. He threw his weight to one side in a desperate attempt to keep his balance, but somehow, despite his effort, he still fell to the floor. The demon laughed at him. The laughter rang in Marek's ears like thunder, and covering his ears couldn't block it out.
He pushed himself back to his feet and brought his hands together to send another white hot beam of fire toward Natasza, but now his vision was wavering, warping and distorting as if the world was at the bottom of a rippling pond. His aim was off, and the fire simply burned through the walls behind the demon. Natasza laughed again and then locked eyes with him. “Do you think it is right, mortal, for you to pass judgment over me? Will your conscience let you rise so far above your station?”
It did feel wrong, somehow. He sensed that he would regret what he was doing. But those feelings didn't matter. It had been a simple logical progression, from the Blessed Book, to the history books, to the books of magic, to his confrontation with the king, to this confrontation. The words had revealed the will of the Most Holy, and that was all that mattered, not his feelings.
He squinted his eyes and brought up his right hand, using the same spell he had used on Gavril. The fire from his hand spread out and covered the demon, the throne, and the entire wall behind. When it subsided there was no more trace of Natasza, and the throne was a mass of charred wood and melted metal. The walls of the throne room behind her had been damaged in the attack as well, and they began to make a hideous noise that threatened collapse. The nobles fled in a panic, and some of the wounded who were unable to raise themselves from the floor were trampled under their feet.
“We'd best follow their lead, Learned,” suggested Petro. “I don't think it's safe to stay here.”