XIII. Breaking the Dawn

The blank, marble eyes of Saint Eosphorous, the Dawn Bringer, stared down in silent judgment as the smoke of a dozen incense and twice as many candles filled the tiny cloister that housed his altar. Renata knelt in fervent prayer at his stone feet, if her prayers were to be heard, the warrior credited with ending a decade-long eclipse and returning light to the world was certainly a safe bet. Candle wax ran down the altar and coalesced in hard, milky pools, offerings to the uncaring dead. She prayed to him today, as she had for the days and weeks leading up to the current hopeless situation, as he was the patron saint of overcoming adversity and times of darkness. Amidst the stinging incense smoke in her eyes and nights spent not sleeping, she prayed for some sort of sign that her efforts weren’t in vain; taking no food and drinking only water.

As she raised her bleary eyes to take in the sessile figure carved in stone, the futility truly sank in. Having never truly faced hardship in her life, it was easy for her to believe in the power of prayer and offer it as a remedy to the harsh realities faced by her flock. With the tables sufficiently turned however, the idea of prayer was repugnant and outright insulting. If talking to one’s self held sufficient power to alter reality, there would never have been a need for The Order in the first place.

Her flight from Nassica had been a difficult one indeed; several of her closest vassals and friends had given their lives in safeguarding her, Aichlan being one of them, there was no denying it at this point. She closed her eyes and willed the thoughts of her lost lover from her mind. She saw the old man burning trash in the dilapidated fort, the stink of refuse filled her nostrils and soon gave way to the pungent scent of burning flesh. She heard the screams of men as they were killed on the field of battle. She opened her eyes and shook her head, willing the sights, sounds and smells to abate. If there was a Dawn at the end of this nightmare, she hoped to meet her lover again on the other side, though she held little hope for such an outcome.

Sir Vance Jung and two other knights of The Order stood guard outside the door. They were essentially the last of her escort. When Xanavene’s forces landed on the island, The Knights of The Order valiantly went out to meet them, and summarily were slain by overwhelming forces and that fiend’s powerful magic. Against her advisors wishes, she had snuck up to the gallery level and watched the battle from the clerestory windows. While she could not see the caster, she saw a wave after wave of black spears, made from pure malevolent energy, shred through her escort and kill half of the knights in under a minute.

The temple shuddered under the impact of the trebuchets outside. The bombardment had been constant, but the intent seemed to harass rather than breech. The Xanavien’s could have broken down the gates days ago; it was as if the siege served the purpose of fraying the occupants’ nerves and keeping them from gaining a moment’s rest. The tactic was a success, though it only brought about more questions about the man who would employ such sadistic methodology, and why.

The constant clamor of nuns and monks that barricaded the gates reached a new, fevered pitch. Dust and rubble fell from the ceiling as the impact of battering rams shook the temple to its foundations. Renata’s mind raced as she tried to focus on her prayers, quite confident that they had fallen upon deaf ears when the heavy oakengates splintered. She could not understand what it was that Xanavene wanted with her.

Renata had only met the King Tiresias III once at his coronation in Sarevon. He seemed quite unremarkable and paid little attention to her. Her invitation was strictly a formality. There were attempts to overthrow the monarchy, as she recalled, and that was one of his main talking points during his speech, but that had little, if anything, to do with this current situation. The main question that weighed heavily on her mind was the question of Osric: who he was and where he came from. It was as if he appeared from nowhere and raised an army that swept through Briternica; the only thing known about him was that he had attended Asketill. The Order had no dealings with the Academy, preferring to instruct its members at convents and monasteries in the Ways of the Light. Unlike magic, the Power of The Dawn was passed down through blood, not learned words and symbols. Could it be that this man had been spurned somehow by a cleric and now sought revenge on The Order’s head? Renata was a mere figurehead; surely, he must know that she held no real authority.

The temple shuddered again under the impact of the battering ram. The hail of stone and debris ceased, the siege had turned into a breech. Vance flung open the doors to her chapel and brusquely lifted her to her feet. The sudden motion caused her head to spin and she collapsed into his arms. He said something to her that she could not hear over the rabble and lifted her onto his shoulder. She did not attempt to protest as he carried her out into the transept.

“How many are left?” He barked to one of his fellow knights.

“Just us four.”

“Dawn’s light!” He swore and gestured towards the monks. “Can any of them fight?”

A monk ducked as the sound of the battering ram rumbled throughout the temple. Vance lifted the man up and shook him to get his attention.

“Pull yourself together man! Can any of you fight?”

The monk nodded slowly. “Ye…yes. Yes! We have several brothers versed in the ancient combat arts, though Dawn magic is more effective on the forces of darkness than living man…”

“It’ll have to do!” Vance snapped as he ushered the four other knights towards a side exit.

Renata watched in a daze as Sir Vance carried her down a short flight of stairs to a wine cellar. The battering rams continued to echo throughout and shake debris from the rafters. She hoped that Osric would be present; despite the terror the mere thought of him evoked within her, she was curious. It seemed unlikely that he would let her go, but she wanted to gain some insight into his purpose, to learn the method to his utter madness. She fought back tears as the thunder of splintering wood gave rise to the cries of bloodthirsty foes, surging into this place of worship with intent to kill. Vance swore under his breath and quickened his pace. She began her prayers anew, though certain no one heard.

* * *

Vance reached the wine vault door and jogged over to it. The Priestess was heavier than he had anticipated, and as such, he was dripping in sweat. His arm was sore from carrying her, but he dared not set her down, the woman didn’t seem like she’d be willing to do anything but collapse into a puddle of defeat. She muttered something to herself, likely a prayer, repeatedly as she fondled the beads on her bracelet. He hoped she did not waste her breath as he fumbled with the locked door. Several swears under his breath later, he gave up on the lock and gestured for one of the knights to break it down.

Explosions followed by screams rang out above, though it was unclear which side provided which sound, he held little hope for the monks left to defend the temple. He followed the nameless knights through a short passage and out on to a small wharf. A fully rigged lugger lay anchored before them, and appeared quite seaworthy. The brothers of the temple likely used it for fishing; one would not want to travel the Sorrow in it however. Seeing as they had no other options, Vance lowered the Priestess into the modest vessel, and motioned for his fellow knights to untie the mooring lines.

“Are any of you Aes Sidhean?” He asked.

The knights looked to one another, they were all either Elysian or from Duvachellé. They quickly and silently resumed work, unwilling to think of the consequences. If they remained, they would die by the Xanaviens, if they set sail, the curse upon these waters could claim them. Vance wiped his brow and began to unfurl the sails rather clumsily. He would rather take his chances with the sea.

A knight gave out a cry in surprise before he tumbled into the water. Vance rushed to the rail so see what had happened only for a crossbow bolt to strike the hull before him. He looked up to see a squad of Xanavien soldiers making their way out from the cellar, with one on his knees as he reloaded a crossbow.

“Cut the lines!” Vance shouted and searched the deck for some sort of rod to cast off with.

Two soldiers leapt onto the deck and quickly dispatched of the second knight. Vance swore and abandoned his search as he drew his sword. He held the weapon with both hands at hip level, the blade pointed towards his enemies in the plow stance. He retreated a step as a third Soldier joined the other two. He quickly glanced over his shoulder, searching for his own reinforcements, only to find the last knight cowering in a corner. Vance spat in disgust and readied himself for an uphill battle.

The first soldier lunged forward with a yell, and he easily parried the blow and slew his opponent in a fluid motion. The other two decided to attack in tandem, and he knocked the first off balance before shoving the other one back. The soldiers regrouped and charged again. After a brief bind and parry, Vance managed to nick one of his foes in the thigh and knock the other flat on his ass. The crossbowman on the wharf fired, but Vance heard the tell-tale click of the firing mechanism and was barely able to sidestep a bolt, getting his foot tangled in a coil of rope in the process. The wounded man charged again and managed to strike his right arm as Vance struggled to get free. A second bolt found its mark in his chest just as the other soldier scrambled to his feet. The impact knocked the air from his lungs as he tumbled backwards onto the deck, the last thing he saw was the Priestess leaping up to shield him before his head struck against the anchor.

* * *

Renata held out her arms and was surprised to see the soldiers halt immediately. Their eyes were almost remorseful and one of them surreptitiously made the sign of the Dawn. She took a breath to steady her nerves and slowly turned to see Vance sprawled out on the deck, blood poured from the wound on the back of his head and his chest. She glanced over her shoulder; the Xanavien’s made no moves, though their weapons were still drawn. Slowly, she crossed over to her wounded guardian and knelt at his side before placing a glowing hand upon his chest and began to work out the bolt with the other. After much spurting blood and struggling against his unconcious spasms, she managed to work the bolt out. Renata placed one hand on Vance’s chest and the other on his head and mustered the last of her strength to call upon power of Dawn and close the wounds. After several exhausting minutes, she was forced to stop, drenched in sweat as she gasped for breath. While the wounds were far from healed, they were at least no longer life threatening. Or so she hoped.

Renata tried to stand and give herself up to her captors, but was overcome with dizziness and collapsed. One of the Xanavien soldiers carefully lifted her into his arms and carried her onto the pier. Renata looked back to the boat and the wounded Vance, its moorings severed; the gentle surf was slowly but surely carrying it out to sea. She closed her eyes as the soldier carried her back into the cellar, and mumbled a prayer to the gods, a prayer to never again awake.

* * *

Osric cautiously stepped over the splintered remains of the shattered gate, marvelling at the ostentatious temple as a tourist might. His sister Maleah rode in after him, gazing up at the high-arched ceilings and marble columns with indifference. He took in the majesty of the architecture with wonder, even as a child he was in awe of temples and their grandeur. He counted off the various architectural features as he and his army strode past the corpses of clergy. Ornate buttresses, adorned with intricate carvings, held up the nave, the vaulted ceiling held scenes of gods and men frolicking in the Elysium Fields. Everywhere he looked, there was statuary, quatrefoils, and beautiful stained glass.

Incense smoke hung thick in the air, sickley sweet and musky, overpowering to the point of nausea. The smoke and dust glittered in the shafts of sunlight creeping past boarded-up windows and the gaping hole that was the front gate. Several soldiers had taken up torches to search the cavernous nave and its offshoots leading to cells and cloisters, offices and up to the gallery. The battle had been over in minutes, and now the soldiers searched for and rounded up any survivors per his instructions. He paused to examine the bloody corpses of the temple’s clergymen and women, impaled by the splintered gate as it imploded on them. He removed a phial of blood-red liquid from his robes and dipped his fingers in the thick, foul-smelling ooze. He drew several runes and symbols upon the fallen clerics and continued on his way, repeating the process to each dead body he came across.

Maleah made her way into the vestibule at a slow gait, leaning forward in her saddle, resting her head upon her hand; the ever-present look of boredom upon her face as she casually held her lance in the crook of her opposite arm. It had been an expensive gift from both of her brothers, a Rhodarcian lance head from Séverin, and a shaft made for the heartwood of an ancient Alfheim ironwood; which Osric never did explain how he acquired. A braided lanyard was wrapped loosely around her wrist; Osric noticed the talisman he’d given to her years before affixed to the head of the lance, and he was surprised she kept it, especially seeing how distant she’d grown lately. The talisman was a ward against evil and the dark arts, made of ravens’ feathers and beads on a bone necklace. She regarded him with a brief flicker of disgust before returning her gaze to nothing in particular. He shrugged it off and marched towards the apse.

They made their way to the head of the temple, stopping at a basin of holy water atop a stone pedestal in the temple’s transept. A few dozen meters away stood a massive stone relief, fifty meters long by twenty high. The statues depicted a great battle between man and demon. Several grooves set at sharp right angles extended from the murals base towards the base of the pedestal, a decorative element at odds with the rest of the temple architecture. Osric stood in awe of the mural as Maleah approached with a yawn.

“It amazes me that you are constantly tired, yet all you do is sleep,” he remarked wryly.

“First books, now art." Maleah grumbled. "Are we quite finished here?” .

He chose to ignore her insolent remarks, instead watching as three soldiers carried the Priestess up from the cellar; she offered little if any resistance.

* * *

Maleah shifted in her saddle and adjusted the weight of her spear, causing the bones to rattle against one another. She smiled at the sound, gifts from her brother given in better times; she had always loved the rattle they made during battle, it was oddly comforting. She had no way of knowing whether they worked or not, but she had not been cursed yet, as far as she knew. Osric handed his cloak to a soldier as he made his way over to the Priestess.

She wore a silk peplos trimmed in gold and sweat-stained. There was blood on her hands and upon her breast, though it did not appear to be hers, she briefly wondered if the priestess had managed to kill one of their men. Numerous golden necklaces, bracelets, dangling earrings, and rings adorned her person, all of which were set with rubies and diamonds, and a great diamond brooch upon her chest. Her hair once nicely arranged; now was ragged and fell in loose brown curls over her angular yet very feminine face. Her hazel eyes were set in defiance, but her quivering lip betrayed her. Maleah found herself making the sign of the Dawn out of pure habit as the Priestess was stood on her own feet.

* * *

Renata studied the features of the aloof man who stood before her, and tried to garner some idea as to who he was. He was relatively young for a military commander and of average size and build, if not on the lean side. His hair fell to the small of his back, lavender in color, and his skin pale. He was well groomed, and if circumstances were different, she might have considered him attractive. His eyes held a quiet sincerity and intelligence, hidden behind a discontent countenance. His fragrant cologne made Renata self-conscious of her own odor and disheveled appearance, and she blushed inadvertently.

A horse snorted to her right, an attractive young woman sat in the saddle, leaning on her elbows. Her features were similar to the man’s as was her wild lavender-colored hair. Her ruby eyes were emotionless; she seemed to stare straight through Renata, causing her to inadvertently flinch before looking away. The woman’s expression could best be described as utter apathy, and something about that was terrifying. There was no doubt the two were related, even though the woman had a slightly darker complexion from more time in the sun, and a more athletic physique.

“I am afraid that there are no animals allowed within the temple.”

The woman raised an eyebrow in response. Renata drew herself up and continued in the saintly tone she had mastered after years of service to The Order.

“The horse can stay,” she cut her eyes to the man; he seemed to not be paying any attention. “But I’m afraid you will have to leave.”

The man chuckled as the woman upon horseback barked a mirthless laugh, but otherwise remained emotionless. She was certain it was Osric she stood before. The woman he was with was still a mystery however. Renata was taken aback by the sincerity of his laughter, completely at odds with his golden irises, which were cold and allowed her a glimpse at his underlying savagery. It was like staring into the eyes of a wolf. He bore the mark of an Asketillian exile upon his forehead: a ξ, which she recognized as a lowercase xi. Just as she opened her mouth to ask about it, he struck her with the back of his ring-laden hand. Renata fell to the ground with a quick yelp of pain, her mouth full of blood. The soldiers who carried her in quickly helped her to her feet as she spat and blinked tears from her eyes.

“You must be Osric.” She did her best to muster a righteous tone, but her unsteady voice belied fear and fatigue. “You’re more of a cad than I’d imagined.”

“And you must be Renata.” He absently polished his ring upon his hem. “You’re more of a bitch than imagined.”

A thick Xanavien accent tainted his Elysian, which he spoke as a Catharonian. She was barely able to understand him. Could he have been educated in Catharone? She wondered. Her head was still spinning from a combination of the slap and her expenditure of energy on the wharf. Here was the man who commanded the largest army in all Silex, yet he bore the look of an intellectual, not a military tactician.

“Tell me, Priestess,” He pointed over her shoulder, “have you ever pondered the meaning of this mural?”

The civility of his tone startled Renata as she dabbed at her bleeding lip. She slowly turned to see what he spoke of. The mural was large and somewhat frightening with its depictions. Men in what appeared to be linen trousers and jackets did battle with tubular crossbow-like weapons against demons with flaming manes and smoke rising from their nostrils. They were in some sort of city; the buildings looked similar to the ruins of Agrardya. Granted, it was well sculpted, but that is about all she ever noticed about it. Beneath the mural was a black marble plaque with an alien script etched into it in gold.

“What of it?” she asked, perplexed. “Is that what this is all about? Some sculpture?”

He chuckled and approached the mural. “It depicts a war that once spanned all of Silex, a world war if you will.”

Renata grew more curious. She had seen the mural more times than she would care to remember, but failed to glean such information from it. Scholars had come and left the temple from every nation that followed The Order, even those that did not, all with the sole purpose of deciphering the images depicted on it. Could this be merely conjecture, or did Osric know something more?

“Abigor sent his spirit to plant the seeds of war and dissention, plague and famine. The result was a conflict that led to the destruction of a grand civilization that had lasted just over three-thousand years.” He pointed at one of the demonic statues on the relief. “This particular battle was between man and the Colby-Nau in what is present day Aglaë, the capital of Sorn.”

“And pray tell how it is you’ve come across this knowledge?”

Osric smiled again. “There are numerous texts hidden away in crypts and vaults by frustrated old men who couldn’t decipher the language.” He motioned toward the plaque, speaking grandly for all to hear. “All you need is to know how to read, Lady Priestess. The evidence is everywhere.

“Crafted thousands of years ago by the remnants of a dying civilization; dedicated to singing the praises of their accomplishments while issuing a warning to all who came after them; the folly of arrogance and greed. After harnessing the power of the sun, they boldly crossed into the void and onward to the realm of the gods, in the end falling to that very power. And do you know the moral of this sad story?”

Renata felt the question was rhetorical, so remained silent. Osric was obviously insane. Nothing he said had any historical support to verify his claims either way. All knowledge of the civilization that had preceded the founding of The Order was lost, only relics and a few passages in The Book of Dawn were left.

“The moral, my Lady Priestess, is that man was not meant to reach the Dawn. We are meant to suffer in obscurity,” Osric cut the air with his hand to emphasis the separation, “in a world of halves!”

Renata flinched at his sudden hostility.

“Half-light, half-darkness. Half youth, half old-age and misery! Finally, birth only to die shortly thereafter. Any attempts to better our lot in life are dashed against the very rock we live upon!” His voice rose to a fury as he hammered each word into the air with his fist.

“Hardly fair, wouldn’t you agree?” He said as he ran his fingers through his silky hair.

“You expect me to believe that you deciphered what hundreds before you could not?”

He frowned. “I and a handful of others, yes. Contrary to popular belief, dead men do tell tales.”

“There is no proof of any of this, why have you come here?” she demanded.

Osric frowned and rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. “There is proof, despite your Orders attempts to destroy it. If you are truly curious, I’ve written several books on the subject that I would be willing to loan you.”

“Ah!” He clicked his fingers and spun on his heels to face her, “Professor Lorenz is also a preeminent archaeologist in Agradya, he is essentially the father of rediscovering pre-collapse civilization, and he is also a prolific author on the subject; however, I’d recommend attending a lecture as his writing style can be a bit bland at times.”

He barked an order to a group of soldiers in Xanavien; they ran off and returned shortly with three crates and four kegs, they had the pungent smell of oil and the contents sloshed about as the men dragged and carried them over to the mural.

“What are those?” She asked.

“Oil and Mother of Abigor, also known as acetone peroxide, a product of Agrardya’s fascination with the old sciences and magic.”

The soldiers gingerly set down the crates and scurried away like roaches in the light.

“These remnants of a dead epoch once littered the world, portraying the important events that occurred where the mural was placed. In addition, in case you were curious, they are not hand carved, but it’d be too stressful to try and explain how they were made. These testaments to mankind’s potential have been bested by time and the elements, ignorance to their significance or both. This is the last remaining and, by far, the best preserved of all its predecessors.”

Soldiers took cover behind columns and overturned tables. Osric dragged Renata by her hair behind a pillar. She struggled and grabbed onto his wrists to lessen the pull against her scalp. He threw her to the ground behind a column and drew several symbols in the air with both hands.

“Maleah, take cover.” He barked and the woman on horseback obliged with a decided lack of urgency.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, tears in her eyes.

Osric’s face was set in stone, his fingers glowing orange. “I’m going to destroy it.”