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| Chapter 67. Seeds of Destruction | |
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hen were you first made aware of the attack, Justicar Corzan?” Confessor Scarpia had his back to the warrior and appeared to be gazing out over the azure horizon as seagulls wheeled past the high tower window. From this vantage he could see the tip of the western peninsula and there was a narrow galley moored at the end of the pier. He listened to the scuffling of the large man’s boots on the stone floor and the wet sounds of his tongue tracing his lips like a scolded dog. “Second watch raised the alarm, Holiness. I had been asleep up until that moment.” “How many men were assigned to second watch?” “Ten, Holiness. Eight stationed around the camp, and a pair patrolling together,” the man said, his tone obsequious and measured. Corzan sensed that he was in a great deal of trouble, which he was, in part because his story did not make sense. Scarpia did not understand how Luchesa had been slain in the middle of an encampment surrounded by three score of the White Mantle’s finest soldiers. As the highest ranked officer who had survived the attack, Justicar Corzan needed to do better than parrot the official report. “Continue.” “Second watch reported that there was a disturbance in Savant Luchesa’s tent. By the time they were alerted, Justicar Aldon and her slave boy were already dead. We believe Savant Luchesa was the last one alive since the position of Aldon’s body suggested he was killed in his sleep.” Corzan’s discomfort with having to mention that Justicar Aldon and Luchesa had been sleeping together in her private tent was made evident by the pregnant pause that followed. The truth was beginning to take form and Confessor Scarpia did not like what he saw. That Savant Luchesa had a lusty disposition did not shock Scarpia, he allowed his people their flaws so long as it did not detract from their duty. Weaknesses provided powerful levers and thus obedience and loyalty. “Two assailants were able to enter her tent unseen despite eight men posted around the camp and two on patrol?” “Yes, Holiness,” the man stammered. “How do you account for this?” “I suspect they were drunk and had been gambling. I disciplined them, Holiness.” “Discipline after an incident is rarely effective,” Scarpia said quietly to the sound of awkward foot shuffling, “The official report was written by you?” “Yes, Holiness.” “What measures were taken to discover the origin of the attackers? Was a base camp discovered?” “Seeker Pria was not able to find traces of them leading to the camp, Holiness. It is possible those tracks were destroyed while we were mustering to make pursuit. Savant Luchesa caused a great deal of destruction in her last moments and by that time most of the men were already chasing the assailants.” Scarpia turned toward the low table on which the report was currently spread out, weighted with a goblet of stale wine and a plate of dried out bread. “So you do not in fact believe that ‘They appeared as if out of thin air and descended upon Luchesa like demons’?” he read aloud, “You may entertain the idea that since they did not use their demonic talents to vanish but in fact took to their heels that perhaps these were ordinary men?” “It is p-possible, Holiness.” “Then why did you write this rubbish?” Scarpia demanded as he reached for the scroll and hurled it at Corzan. “The… the men say they had demonic faces… Savant Luchesa burned down a shrine to Melandru that morning and the priestess cursed us and called upon the Tenebrae.” “The men said this? The ones who were drinking and gambling while their commanding officer was ‘entertaining’ Justicar Aldon?” “Yes, Holiness,” the man coughed, turning a deep shade of red. “They always say that,” Scarpia laughed bitterly, “If Tenebrae existed and the old gods had a shred of power, I would have been destroyed by them hundreds of times over yet here I stand unharmed. These are old wives tales made to frighten children and fools. Now that I have your measure, I want this report rewritten. I want the truth this time, not some infantile drivel about demons. When you are done, give it to me and I will then decide your fate. You are dismissed.” Confessor Scarpia went back to the narrow window and stared once more at the sea. He was not sure what annoyed him more, the fact that his men were so easily cowed by ridiculous superstitions or that the attack had taken place barely three leagues from the Citadel of the Unseen. For ten leagues on every side, the towns and villages had either submitted to White Mantle rule or had been razed out of existence. There was not a single shrine to the impotent old gods within that radius and there had not been a whisper of insurrection or infiltration for nearly six months. Yet an attack of such precision and daring needed support. Someone had to have talked, leaking the location of Luchesa’s detachment. Someone must have housed and fed the assassins prior to their attack. The nearest Shining Blade encampment of any size was deep in the Maguuma Jungle. “What do you make of this?” Scarpia said after a time. “Curious,” said a raspy voice barely louder than dry leaves shifting over stone. Farzhin made no sound beyond the breathless rustling of his voice. He was a friend of shadows for they seemed to gravitate to him even when he stood in full sunlight. Not that he was often seen there, he had a preference for dank crypts and dungeons which, Scarpia fancied, made him ideal for his line of work. The skeletal figure was still tucked behind a bookcase, his gaunt face placed restfully upon the cool stones of the rounded wall while two will-o-wisp points of light glowed from shadowy eye-sockets. “Only curious?” “Morbidly so,” Farzhin said with his humorless hissing laugh. “Was your ‘investigation’ revealing?” “If they lie it is not to hide the truth, it is to hide their lack of evidence and understanding,” Farzhin replied. “That means you believe there is a grain of truth in what they say.” “The assailants appeared out of nowhere, this is a common thread. Even under duress, it is repeated and the spirits of the dead that I have shackled say much the same.” Scarpia glanced toward the bookcase again and calmly looked away when he saw the figure was now standing behind him. He masked his horror, a natural response that the living had toward the undead. Farzhin smiled grimly back at him, in part because he had little choice with so much of his face rotted away. What remained of his flesh clung in leathery desiccated sheets to exposed bone. Even his clothing was decrepit having absorbed the juices and filth of decay. Tiny glints of gold thread hinted at rich brocade. There was still a bejeweled carcanet around his sinewy throat that indicated high station. “Is this possible?” “Yes,” Farzhin replied, “In Orr, I knew of magi who traveled the ethers. It was a closely guarded secret held by only a few. I believe one of them has allied with the Shining Blade. They ran because they could not open a portal to escape without risking death or capture. That is why no trace of them was found below the cliff.” Confessor Scarpia began to pace, the flesh of his nape prickling each time he turned his back on Farzhin. He was disturbed by the news. No lock could bar such an attacker. It was only a matter of time before they struck again, possibly an even more devastating blow. “You are safe for now,” Farzhin continued. “Why do you say that?” “The moon waxes toward full, they will not dare to open such a portal again until it is new once more.” “What can we do in a month?” “Sew the seeds of their destruction. Infiltrate them.” “We have tried that…” “We use their people -- ones they trust, ones they wish returned to them. Give them to me first and I will prepare them.” “I will order Gascon to hand over custody of those in the lower cells that you desire. He will know which are valuable to the Shining Blade.” “I have discussed it with him. He was very helpful in identifying them, I needed only your agreement.” Until that moment, Scarpia had resented Gascon’s recent befriending of the Orrian undead. Now he must reward the old necromancer for being so prescient. He did not hear Farzhin move to the door to let himself out. War made strange bedfellows, particularly when one intended to win at any cost. |
