The period of grace came and went and, as the sun rose on the city, the priests returned at the Tower, a mob of angry citizens in tow.

Walking with purpose at their head, An-Helios felt deeply satisfied. Amidst all those that had presided to the Temple of the Sun, he was the most ambitious, self-driven and suspicious. He looked down on all the other Temples, considering their patrons inferior to his own. After all, beyond all the theological discussions, it was just obvious; what but the Sun could stand at the pinnacle of creation? War, Artistry, Love, Order, they all bowed before the majesty of Luminous Helios.

Deeply faithful, his most fervent wish was to see his sect rise to prominence into the city and for that reason he looked with distrust at any power that could threaten it. The community of mages in the town was just such a nuisance. With excellent foresight, An-Helios saw it as a weed that had to be cut before it grew too much. Also, he was orthodox, adhering at the ancient doctrine that looked with a deep suspect at the use of magic. In his vision, one very widespread in the empire, that power was a gift from the Gods, to be used by their chosen and only by them. The common man, so prone to sin, shouldn’t meddle with it. In his mind, mages and necromancers were very close, barely one giving in to temptation away from each other.

Being proved right was satisfying and frustrating at the same time, showing once again the fragility of man, but for now, he pushed away the latter to bask at the moment.

Time and again, his predecessors had tried to nip that infestation of magic-wearing blasphemers at the bud but they had all failed; he would honor their efforts by succeding. Not only he would have the necromancers punished and the rest cast out and dispersed; he would even reach where none before ever could: the dark tower itself.

The silent, mysterious archmage living at the center of Truvia had been a secret chagrin of the Sun Temple since the city’s foundation. What was he doing in there? Why was he so secretive? Why didn’t he ever accept anybody in it? An-Helios had grown amidst those suspects, learning to look at that foreboding building with a distrust bordering into fear. Countless times he had imagined terrible practices being wrought in gloomy chambers, all in clear sight.

It had been frustrating and humiliating being unable to do anything about it, all because of something so trivial like a lack of concrete proof. More than once he had felt the need to scream at the governor and at the other Temples’ representatives: isn’t that secrecy enough of a proof? Don’t you all see that a man shouldn’t live so long? It’s unnatural and we’re allowing it to fester! Cowards, all of them, too scared by what that mage could do to do their duty.

But no more. The “proof” had finally fallen in his lap.

A tremor of disgust and rage passed through An-Helios. Necromancy! Of the vilest kind!

His interrogation of the captive had yielded little, the man stubbornly clinging to his lies, but he knew better. The continuous pallor of the “child”, her skeletal appearance; some of his faithful even said that she shed from the light, others that they saw her drink animal blood. It all made sense. That “child” was a puppet, snatched from the grave and kept for unnameable reasons.

Such an obscenity was beyond the mages of the town. That left only a possibility: the archmage of the tower had been supplying them with the means for it. The exact reason escaped An-Helios but it was another reason for satisfaction more than anything else. Being unable to understand the motives of the dark ones was proof of his own purity. And then, it didn‘t matter. He would have his answers soon enough.

No more stalling, no more delaying. The good citizens of Truvia stood behind him and his brothers and sisters. The other Temples had agreed to participate or, as cowards as they were, declared themselves neutral. Together, they would storm the Tower and lay its dark secret bare. No matter what powers the wizard could call upon, it would all melt before the glory of the sun.

An-Helios’s head filled with the images of a new temple, raising splendid where the Tower had been, spreading the Luminous Gospel to every good heart. In his mind, there wasn’t any connection between the wizard’s presence and the abundance provided by that land. It was the Sun’s blessing to make it as it was, another reason why that abominable tower had to disappear, so that sacred land could be properly honored.

As they reached the fence surrounding the Tower, four Sun Acolytes sprang forward. At the crowd’s cheers, they kicked and pushed the gate open, sending it to slam against its hinges with a sound of tortured metal.

Holding himself high, An-Helios advanced past the gate and on the path leading at the Tower’s door.

As he stepped on the path, the crowd steadily fell silent, hushed by the acolytes.

The priest enjoyed the moment. He felt the weight of destiny on his shoulders, a righteous fire burning in his veins.

“Wizard!” He called. Then, deciding that a different title was more appropriate: “Necromancer! Despoiler of tombs!”

The crowd behind him cheered and jeered. Makeshift weapons were waved in the air. Sun Priests and Acolytes in their golden and yellow robes joined in, lifting their sacred emblems. Sun Templars, their armors burnished to the color of copper, stood silently in wait.

“You had your time!” An-Helios’s voice rang loud and clear in the early morning air. “What is your answer? Will you consign us the abomination or will we have to take it by force?”

An-Helios would lead an assault on the Tower in either case, of course. If the wizard consigned the undead, he would just point it out, dispatch the monster and then lead his brothers and sisters to attack. He felt no remorse. Necromancers deserved nothing, much less a chance of escaping their just punishment.

Silence, interrupted only by hushed murmurs, fell.

An-Helios was just about to call again that the door of the Tower suddenly snapped open, sending a wave of alarm through the crowd.

A towering man dressed like a vagrant came marching out.

For a moment, the citizens wavered, the legend of the wizard enough to faze them. Walking there had been one thing. Facing the man whose foreboding abode they had been growing under? Much less.

Still, before the sun acolytes could encourage them, realization set in.

“That’s Lazslo!”

“The Wanderer!”

“It’s Lazslo!”

The lion-like mane, the sparkling eyes, the towering presence; there could be no mistake. Many had seen him, walking the roads to who knew what destination, many more had even exchanged words with him or received his bellowing greetings. What in the name of the Gods was he doing there?

The large man stopped in the middle of the path. Putting his hands on his sides, he regarded the crowd, a large, toothy smile on his face.

“Lazslo?”An-Helios asked, surprised. He didn’t expect the mage to be there. “What are you doing here?”

Laszlo’s gaze fixed over him. His smile, the priest noticed, reached his eyes, but they weren‘t friendly. “That’s what i should be asking!” He suddenly bellowed. His voice blasted against An-Helios like a gust of wind, the priest raising a hand out of instinct to cover his face. Behind him, the citizens shrank back.

“What is the meaning of this, you louts?!?” Laszlo shouted with severity. “What, it’s brigand season down here? That’s why you come barging in other people’s houses like this?”

A wave of disorientation passed through the crowd. Citizens watched each other in confusion.

“Lord Laszlo…” An-Helios began but the big man didn’t allow him to put a word in.

“Get out!” He shouted, waving a thick finger. “All of you! Sod off!”

The citizens murmured, unsure of what to do. The acolytes and priests murmured with rising hostility.

An-Helios’ mind whirled, thinking of many reasons for Laszlo’s presence there. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to involve him. The wanderer was a good man, for a wizard.

“Laszlo!” He called, trying to be reasonable. “We have no quarrel with you! Our matter is with the necromancer living here!”

“Ah!” Laszlo slammed a hand on his stomach. “Ain’t no necromancers here, sonny. Except the ones you guys in dresses see when you drink too much of that sacred cider of yours.”

An-Helios blanched at the casual blasphemy. All the acolytes and priests and templars cried out in anger.

“We…” An-Helios made an effort to remain civil. “We have proof… there’s an undead child…”

Laszlo’s barking laughter cut him straight off. “It’s an undead now? A child? Damn, kiddo, you really better put off that cider of yours. It’s making you see things now!”

An-Helios swayed on his feet. Did that mage scum just… just…

“You…!” The priest pointed a finger at him, choking on words. Never during all his years of priesthood, he had heard such a blatant blasphemy toward the Sun’s sacred rites.

In all answers, Laszlo gave him the largest, most toothy smile ever.

“Whatever!” He barked. “The Master is busy and i hold the Tower while he’s not here! So if you all don’t want me to spank you, you better sod off! I am going to count to ten!”

That was too much. An-Helios wasn’t going to restrain himself anymore.

“Seize him!” He screeched, pointing wildly against Laszlo. “He’s in league with the Necromancer! Capture him! Get him!”

The citizens hesitated. The Wanderer was a beloved figure in their city. They all remembered a time when, as kids, the big man would come, bringing toys and sharing food with their families.

Thankfully for An-Helios’ nerves, the sun priests and templars didn’t have the same hesitations. Taking out weapons and sacred focus, they charged down the path, shouting and crying out.

“Now we’re talking!” Laszlo bellowed merrily. “Brigands! Thieves! All of you!” The mage stomped down and, as he had asked for it, a ball of dirt the size of his head sprang out of the earth. He punched it, sending to smash against the first templar coming his way. The man flew back in an explosion of earth, smacking against those coming after, making them all tumble back.

“If you want it, come and get it! Form in a single line and just wait for your turn! I have some for all of you!”

Moving fast like the wind, Laszlo unleashed a barrage of dirtballs, scattering the charge. Templars and priests drew back in disordered haste. The citizens scattered, searching for shelter.

“Don’t relent!” An-Helios screamed furiously. The priest raised his focus, a sun emblem. The object shone with light and three projectiles smashed themselves to pieces against a shining barrier. “The Sun is with us! Att…!” His words ended in a scream when the ground bucked under him like a horse, sending him flying.

The high priest landed amidst his followers. Angrily shrugging away fretting acolytes, he raised himself up.

“He’s alone!” He screamed. “Grab him! Catch him!”

Acolytes, priests and templars eagerly obeyed, charging down the path.

Laszlo just laughed rancorously, the earth all-around answering to his call.

As the sounds of battle filled the air, nobody noticed the small door that opened on a side of the Tower.

Swaddled in clothes too large for him, Timothy looked this and that way, before sneaking outside.

He perked up his ears. Distant, the sounds of battle reached him, making him grimace.

“That’s not what i pictured when you said you were going to distract them, Lord Laszlo…” he murmured, shaking his head.

He should have foreseen it, he supposed. Lord Laszlo had never been one for subtleties.

“Alright…” Patting nervously at the cloak that, hopefully, would help him to sneak around unseen, he tried to steady himself. He didn’t manage to, not really, but at least he wasn’t panicking anymore. Now, he had a plan.

Tiptoeing, he made his way toward the fence. A mound of dirt had been moved in a point at its base, allowing to create, after some laborious moving around, a small passage underneath. Timothy thought of badgers and hogs trying to get at the Master’s vegetables as he squirmed his way through. The thought would have made him laugh if he didn’t feel invisible gazes boring into him.

Once he reached the other side, he jumped at his feet and took off in a panicked sprint, quickly traversing the empty space between the fence and the first houses.

He expected for a cry of alarm to go out at any moment, someone of the mob noticing him despite the distance. Surprisingly, it didn’t happen. He threw himself behind a corner and with his back against a wall. Panting, he peeked around the corner, looking for pursuers. Nothing. Incredible, he had managed to sneak out undetected.

“Alright alright…”

He repressed the need to wipe at his forehead. In the distance, he could hear the sounds of fighting, intermingled with Laszlo’s laughter and flashes of golden light.

No time to lose.

Sending a prayer and thanks toward the mage, he sprinted away.

As he ran amidst the alleys, the plan Laszlo had come up with replayed in his mind: find the Bonespeakers of Nama and have them testify that the medicine wasn’t of necromantic nature.

The plan was as simple as it was effective, and he scolded himself for not having thought about it sooner. The Bonespeakers were rigorously neutral, not concerning themselves with politics, but even they wouldn’t turn down a request like that. More importantly, there wasn’t anybody more knowledgeable of the ways of the undead: their judgment would have convinced everybody.

Timothy’s enthusiasm for the plan had lasted the time to realize who should have brought the medicine to the dark priests.

The medicine felt like hot coals in the secret satchel sewn in the inside of his sleeve. Irrationally, Timothy wondered if it would have ended burning a hole through the fabric and fall to the ground. Without thinking, he grabbed at it and ran faster.

So fast that he almost didn’t see the armed patrol making their way through the alley.

“Stay in your houses!” One of the guardsmen, an officer, judging from the stripes on his shoulder, was shouting at people looking out of windows or standing on doors. “The disturbance will soon be over! Remain in your houses and stay calm!”

As he skidded to a stop, almost tumbling on his face, Timothy distantly thought that the governor was probably trying to avoid even more citizens joining the mob. The man was a god-fearing devotee, always ready to do the Temples’ bidding, but he tried to play a balance of power as well, struggling to keep the peace between the various factions living in his city.

“Sergeant! Look at that one!”

Timothy froze like a deer caught in front of the hunters as the general attention moved over him.

“You there!” The sergeant barked. “Get back inside! Governor’s orders!”

Mind running, Timothy searched for an explanation, an excuse, anything to get out of dodge.

“Hey, are you listening? I told you to get back inside!”

The sergeant didn’t seem to be brimming with patience. Stomping at him, he grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Or do you prefer to be detained? Eh?”

Timothy almost jumped, barely stopping himself from lashing out in fright. He opened his mouth, then closed it, waving his hands.

“Sergeant, this one is suspicious,” one of the soldiers commented. “I’d say we bring him in.”

The prospect sent a jolt of terror through Timothy. If they arrested him, Lord Laszlo would…

“Yeah, seems about right” the sergeant agreed. “Men, get…!”

The man’s words caught in his throat as Timothy jerked his hand away.

The apprentice put a finger straight in front of the surprised man’s face.

“Yous keep yos hands away from meeeee,” he slurred.

Timothy swayed on his feet, putting up the best impression of an outraged drunk he could muster.

“Don’t yus, don’t yus touch me, you hear? I have places to be… many, many places!” He threw his hands in the air to emphasize, only to almost plop down when he put too much hip in his swaying.

The sergeant rolled his eyes as the citizens looking outside laughed.

“Another drunk. Go figure…” the man grumbled. “Whatever. Run along, drunkard.”

He gave Timothy a shove that sent him on his buttocks, then marched away, gesturing for his men to follow.

The apprentice didn’t move as the steps of the guardsmen faded in the distance, barely noticing the jeers and jokes the citizens threw at him before slamming their doors. He was too busy keeping his heart from jumping out of his chest.

“I cannot believe that worked,” he panted, breathless, once he was alone.

Standing up on swaying legs, he had to lean against the wall for support.

“Maybe Master was right…” he mumbled. “I am not cut for action, at all.”

Well, too late for that kind of thinking, wasn’t it?

Timothy gave himself a bit of straightening up, then, when he felt more like himself, he resumed his path. This time, he didn’t run but only jogged. Apart from being able to see where he was going before, you know, running headlong into it, he thought better he paced himself. You never knew when all that business was going to end.

Trying his best to keep his courage, he pressed on.

To reach the House of Dust, where the Bonespeakers congregated, he needed to traverse half of the town. More importantly, he had to cross the main streets more than once. He saw very soon that it was a dangerous affair: the Sun priests were out and about, rallying the people and the other Temples’ acolytes to their cause. Mobs of angry citizens filled the streets, cheering and waving makeshift weapons as the golden-robed men harangued them about the dangers of the necromancers among them. In all the chaos, the guardsmen didn’t even try to assert order. Many just joined the mob; the others stood by the sides, trying their best to look inconspicuous and taking the jeers of the citizens in silence when they didn’t manage to.

Making his way through the press of bodies, Timothy struggled with a mix of despair, horror and dismay. He had known that the people of Truvia didn’t like mages, his days as an urchin had taught him as much, but that was…

He watched with sick fascination as people shouted for blood, people that until yesterday had lived in peace with his kind. Torches already lit were waved, men, women, even children rallying at the sermons of the golden priests.

“Dear Gods…” Timothy murmured, clutching his cloak tighter to himself. How it had come to that? Such a reversal, and so suddenly…

Keeping his head down, trying his best to look inconspicuous, he made his way through the crowd. He felt like invisible gazes bore into him, seeing straight through his disguise. His heart hammered in his chest at the thought of what would happen if he was discovered. The people of the city knew him…

By the time he was past the most of the mob, he was panting and soaked in sweat.

Repressing the need to wipe at his forehead, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. Few people were outside in that part of the city, mostly groups of stragglers milling around, people about to or unsure about joining the mob.

The sight lifted a bit of the heaviness in Timothy’s heart. Not all the city had been infected by that madness. It was relieving.

Deciding to pick up to pace, he jogged away from the main street and down an alley. Still, he remembered his previous decision and didn’t rush.

Thanks to that, he saw the next danger in time.

“What did you say?”

The woman’s snapping voice came from behind a corner. Recognizing it with a surge of dismay, almost ended on his face in his haste to stop.

“Utar-Helios?” He panted in disbelief, plastering himself against the wall.

The right-hand woman of An-Helios was just as infamous as her master, being as steely efficient just as the high priest was loudly charismatic.

What was she doing there, so away from the main thing?

“It has to do with the temples?” Timothy wondered. Apart from the House of Dust, another couple of main temples were close by. It only made sense for Utar-Helios to be there if there was some talking to be made with the other clergies.

Let’s hope she didn’t do anything troublesome with the Bonespeakers…

Rationally speaking, it was unlikely. The Bone priests kept to themselves. Still, a part of him couldn’t but fear. He felt pretty unlucky since Master sequestered himself away.

Carefully, he peeked around the corner.

Sure enough, Utar-Helios, tall and foreboding even swathed in the golden-colored robes of her order, was there, discussing with an armored soldier and another person he couldn’t see, while a group of priests respectfully waited at some distance.

“Laszlo is here?” The woman was asking at the templar, a deep frown on her face.

“Yes, Your Brightness”, the man nodded. “He blocks the Tower’s entrance. The high priest and the brethren are trying to force their way through as we speak.”

A chorus of angry mumbling rose from the priests. They shouted abuse at the mage and urged for them to rally the faithful and run to the high priest’s help.

Utar-Helios silenced them by raising a hand.

The priestess looked thoughtful. “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “As much as powerful the Wanderer is, he cannot possibly hope to prevail against the entire city.” Realization lit up her expression. “A distraction of some kind?” She turned at the Templar. “The wizard of the tower and his apprentice… where are they?”

The templar looked at a loss. “We don’t know, Your Brightness. Laszlo was alone.”

The priestess let out a disgusted sound. “You imbeciles!” She bit out. “It’s a distraction!” The Templar shrank back and said nothing.

“Brightness…”

As the third person called for her attention, the priestess turned to glare at them, allowing Timothy to see who the last member of the little council was.

The apprentice felt his heart jump in his throat. Without even thinking, he took off in a sprint, running away into the alleys.

He had recognized the last man by his apparel: a simple, military outfit, the wide-brimmed hat and, more especially, the spider web of tattoos covering his face, converging in the painted third eye at the center of the forehead.

Not a mage, but you didn’t need to be one to be a Sighter.

His quick, panicked reaction gave him a headstart, even if it didn’t allow him to hear their next words.

“There is a mage listening to us. Running away just now…”

“What? Why didn’t you say it earlier? Everyone! Quick! After him! Catch him! Quick, quick!”

Timothy heard the steps of his pursuers a moment after, heart skipping a beat.

Curse my luck!