Random Stories and Fragments

The golden skyscrapers of the Great City were visible for countless miles, overwhelming the vast plains of black sand and challenging even the distant mountains for supremacy of the skyline. From within one of the tallest, a creature looked upon his home. To call him human would not be entirely accurate, but he could easily be mistaken for such. Perhaps it is best if we think of him as human, for time being. His name was Siasul Maellon, and he had a problem.

His life was meaningless. His wife, Asthen Maellon, was a distant woman, more interested in climbing the social ladder by any means necessary than her husband's many philosophical problems. “Just don't worry about these... feelings of yours,” she would insist. “Pray to the Glorious Father Agares more. He may provide if you are loyal. Or show some more initiative. You'll never move up in the Organization if you aren't willing to do what you have to.” Yes, yes, the Organization. The omnipresent Organization, rulers of the Great City. Everybody was part of the Organization. Everybody wanted to move up in the organization. Sometimes for the power, sometimes for the pleasures of more beautiful women and more powerful drugs, sometimes just because that's what you did in the Great City. Ambition, desire, hope, ruled Nyx. Nobody thought twice about it. Except Siasul. Maybe a few others, but Siasul dared not speak about his strange feelings.

“I'm going to go the office,” Siasul announced after the latest variant on this dialog. Without a further word, he then left. Not for the office, though. He walked. He was going nowhere in particular, it just seemed like a good idea. Sculptures dedicated to the Glorious Father Agares could be seen everywhere. To call them “art” would be an insult to the term, though; they were merely efforts to outdo others in hollow devotion, grand, meaningless things to sway favor. The people of Nyx were never really devoted to Agares, but to themselves.

As Siasul walked, he sensed a purpose. He knew he wasn't going randomly. He was going somewhere, he just didn't know where. A turn here, a twist there; he should have been robbed for all the strange alleys he found himself in, yet nobody seemed there to do it. Normally, the perpetual night of Nyx made alleys the home of hoodlums, as bent upon moving up in the Organization as anyone else, but willing to do so by opening up positions in the most violent of ways. This was repeated, in subtler form and with larger words, wherever you were in the Organization.

Siasul mused about this for a time. Then he saw... her. She was like no other woman of Nyx, shimmering in colors that his world simply did not have. “Siasul,” she said. “Your world is doomed.” Siasul stopped. He stared at this... his tongue lacked words for what he beheld. But somehow, his mind managed to coin a new one. “Angel.”

“Doomed?” he asked, warily. Some new, brilliant con-artist? Trusting people in Nyx was never wise. And yet, this... “angel...” not trusting her seemed as absurd as walking on the sky. “Yes,” she said. “Agares grows spiteful and jealous of...” her next word held no meaning to Siasul. A name, somebody important, and yet utterly beyond what Siasul had been created to comprehend. Hearing that strange word hurt him. The angel seemed not to notice this. “To spite him, he intends to turn this world to ash, and destroy all within it.” The Glorious Father Agares, destroying all he had created to spite... what? “Who was this... the...” Siasul struggled, attempting to give meaning to the name. “This... I couldn't understand his name, but you spoke of somebody who angered Glorious Father Agares...” The angel spoke this entity's name again, and Siasul forced himself to try and understand it. It was not the entity's true name, for that would have likely obliterated Siasul entirely. He could barely grasp this shadow of its name. Everything. Complete. One. Perfect. Beyond. These all hurt, so Siasul clung to the simplest one, even though it terrified him to speak even this shadow of a shadow of a name. “What did this... Glorious-Beyond-Agares do? And... how did he earn such a name?”

The angel seemed briefly confused. Then she realized Siasul was speaking of what she knew as the One that Sirona had told her of. “Glorious-Beyond-Agares, as you call him, created everything.” Siasul laughed. “Agares created Nyx!” And yet, somehow... the name. The angel continued. “Yes, and Glorious-Beyond-Agares created Agares, and twenty others besides. I serve...” another name, though this one didn't hurt. It just felt... surreal. The angel had said Sirona, but Siasul had to make due with “Sheltering-Weak.” An oxymoron in his tongue, but Siasul was beyond caring. The angel paused this time, and then repeated what she had said, more slowly. “I serve Sirona/Sheltering-Weak, who has sent me to save this world. Glorious-Beyond-Agares,” (Siasul sighed with relief; she had not used that dreadful name that was so beyond him) “has closed the gates to...” this time, the angel decided to spare Siasul and break down the concept herself, “paradise-beyond-paradise.” Siasul was reeling. The angel gave him a few moments to digest what he had heard before continuing. “The others, including my Lady, have begun making creatures like me for the inevitable war upon... the world-of-all-worlds, though I fear what should happen to... the children of the Sacrificer-of-Self." So many new words, just now being born in the doomed world of Nyx. Siasul could barely keep up. A paradise beyond what Agares promised? Worlds beyond Nyx? Another world, made up of parts of all these worlds? A being who would sacrifice himself? The angel continued. "But Agares has shown no interest in creating, and my Lady fears he intends to destroy, to spite Glorious-Beyond-Agares, who deemed that his children should continue to create in His absence. My Lady sent me to save all that could be saved.”

Siasul's entire world view had been completely shattered. The most basic truths, ones that seemed self-evident, had been blown away by this strange messenger, and yet somehow he knew they were true. He attempted to go over what he had just heard. So much... he focused on the simplest parts. Because of some war with another, greater being, Agares was planning to destroy Nyx, and everyone in it. This angel had been sent by another being, an equal of Agares, more-or-less, who, for some absurd yet oddly beautiful reason, sheltered the weak. Of these facts, Siasul realized the most important to him was the fact Agares was planning to destroy Nyx; he'd try and understand the motivations later. “What can we do to stop Glorious Father...” somehow, the title seemed inappropriate, even though it was practically one word in Siasul's tongue. “What can we do to stop... Agares.” The angel was silent for a moment, then, “we can't. I was sent to save those I could. I called for all of Nyx. But clearly, Nyx did not hear me. Only you did.” “Why?” “I don't know. Something of Glorious-Beyond-Agares must be in you, as it should have been in all creatures.”

Agares had made a mistake. Despite his efforts, some tiny fragment of the True Heaven had found its way into Siasul. Not much, but enough that Siasul managed to embody Hope, not as Agares had corrupted it, but as the One had intended.

They waited for several hours. Then, the angel said, “it is time.” Siasul nearly asked, “time for what?” but he already knew the answer. He tried to think of what he would miss, tried to be sad. But everybody in this world was the same. No, he would not miss his brethren, although he felt like he should. This mysterious... somehow, he managed to make the word. This mysterious Sirona clearly felt his people worth saving. And yet, he knew they weren't. But it felt wrong that he should feel so indifferent to their demise.

The angel lifted Siasul, and they flew; not upwards, but outwards, into some spatial dimension beyond the three Siasul knew of. “What will become of... everyone else in Nyx?” he asked. “They will return to that from whence they came, as all without the divine spark do.” “It will be like they never existed?” “Perhaps. They will persist, in the memory of their god. Maybe, in time, Agares will see fit to recreate Nyx, but not as it is now. As a better place, as part of the greater whole of Creation. A place where reverence is payed unto Glorious-Beyond-Agares.” “What of me?” The angel thought. “I believe I have an answer.”



Morthas was fleeing. From the Order that would not allow him redemption, save in torture and death. From the Ashen Veil, which he had turned his back upon. He didn't have any destination in mind, he simply knew he had to get away. So when he beheld an altar and sensed a deep holy magic within it, he practically threw himself upon it. “Whatever god or goddess rules this altar, please have mercy upon me! Please, I beg of you, take my pathetic life and turn it into your tool! I will serve, I will do what I must to earn my salvation, I just beg of you in the name of all that is good, help me! I give you my life to do with as you will, just please, please, if one as foul as me can be redeemed, let it be so! And if I am beyond redemption, at the very least, have one mercy! Do not merely kill me, wipe me from Erebus forever, that my soul may find the peace of oblivion!” Silence, and then, Morthas felt something.

“Who... what... are you?” Morthas beheld a glorious angel... yet it was of the colors of Agares, gold and black. He had chosen the wrong altar, of all the idiotic mistakes, his soul was more damned than before, if it was possible... “you are not so far beyond redemption as you think, Morthas,” it said. He had nothing left to lose. Morthas laughed. “Hah! Servant of Agares! Kill me! Take my soul! I give up! But I will serve you no further!” He laughed the hollow laughter of utter despair. “I do not serve Agares,” the angel said. “I come in the name of Sirona. Go to the Elohim city of Cafes. Tell them your tale; I already know it. We have been watching you. You are not beyond redemption. I assure you, no matter how deep the taint of Agares runs, it can be overcome.” Morthas stared. Then, nervously, he said, “very well. But tell me, can one who has spent his whole life in Agares' service really be cleansed?” And Siasul said, “yes.”

“And, of course, once we have resolved our differences through a peaceful dialogue, you may leave. We will supply you with the finest foods, clear water, incense to please you.” “Everything but my freedom.” The priest smiled “Let none deny the hospitality of the Malakim.” Gregory and the bright-eyed Luridus sat in a small room atop a spindly minaret. They hadn’t called it a search when a beggar jostled his book out of his hands in the market, nor had they called it an arrest when the guards escorted him to the temple. They didn’t even have the decency to call this an interrogation. “I would be wrong to leave you with this falsehood. You honestly refuse to believe in the Gods? You know the stories, have seen their power manifest before on Erebus. I have even shown you the power of Lugus myself.” Best to deal with captors politely. Bastards. “My friend, I do not deny this. They exist as do you or I, but there is another.” Gregory explained his worship of the One, fruitless in many ways but something he felt compelled to do. The Luridus, for his part, pointed out the total lack of proof in the God of Gods and the necessity to find undeniable signs from the divinities before worshiping.

The friendly chat continued for hours, and Gregory began to look for any way out. “You know the Sidar?” “We know of them. Not undead, not quite living. They live on the far continent, beyond the elves. We don’t know if they follow Arawn or Esus, but they don’t participate in the Overcouncil. They don’t raise temples to the sky as we do.” The Luridus gestured over the view from their needle. “They won’t even allow our missionaries into their land. Not that we can afford Hannah’s damn fees with the war going. Now, about your conversion,” The Empyrean will reveal state information to a prisoner. Nothing is secret. He’ll listen to my tale if it’s enjoyable enough. Hell, he might even believe it. You can bet the Clan would’ve had tongs on me by now. “I’ve traveled there. Celo. They have archives going back to the Age of Dragons. The priesthood is old and powerful. They know the secret of immortality, but they know that some things are not to be meddled with, not to be prodded with logic. The hierophant told me of a time long ago…

They had recently (as those things go) discovered texts from another world that allowed one live forever, but it had come at a price (as those things do). The priest-scholars who had partaken in the ritual became more distant, withdrawing into their studies. Most spoke of intense melancholy and of knowing that at some time in the future they would be absolute masters of their craft, and then have to take another to perfect, and another, and then what? They became old men, skilled but detached. More of the populace partook of the ritual, and more began to despair. They feared what they had left behind. The Sidar are something like my nation, they had moved beyond worship of gods, but at this point the priest-scholars found a new purpose. They searched for life beyond death, for higher gods, for any tiniest scrap of purpose in their condition. Mages summoned angels and demons, priests conversed with the spirits. Aesthetes and anchorites sought faraway entities that know the reason for death. Time continued to pass as the will of the entire state was bent towards finding an answer. Finally, the hierophant in unchanging Celo received word that something had been found in a remote monastery. He summoned a beast to carry him to the Delight of Ages. Five days and four nights Sandalphon flew over inky lakes and mountains no mortal army could pass.

Now you must understand that in those days the monasteries of the Sidar were not like the paltry Elohim ones today. The Delight of Ages was three hundred sen of basalt walls round and seven sen high, impenetrable. Libraries and dormitories and workshops of every kind were built along the walls while farms supporting the ten thousand monks lay within the ring. Eight towers higher than the Great Lighthouse lined the wall. Isolated like any proper monastery, it was yet a city in its own right, where still-mortal peasants and children mingled with undying monks.

When Sandalphon’s creature took him low over the last ridge, he understood why only one message had been sent. Bodies piled nearly to the top of the wall under each of the towers. The wall had not been breached, and as he came closer Sandalphon saw no signs of war, no damage- at least none to buildings or land. Besides the piles of corpses, everything was as pristine as it had been on his last visit several hundred years ago. The bodies were untouched as well. He saw none of the marks of war, no sword gash, no spear hole or protruding arrow, instead only wounds that could be accounted for by a long fall. They had not been killed, but everyone in the monastery had died, monk and still-mortal alike. Finally, in exploring the corridors, he came to an Imp inside a summoning circle. Now in their time the Sidar have had dealings with outsiders, and the longest-lived and most skilled among them know demons well, and have ways of binding them to speak the truth. Sandalphon heard the demon’s story: “I was summoned from Hell five hundred years ago. I was less mad to be here than Hell- there are few lower than Imps where Agares lives, and this place is tolerable. My master was teaching a class of adepts in this chamber when his master came to him, saying in your emotionless tongue only “Come with me. We know it.” The old man and his students filed out, and I’ve stayed here alone since.” It was the first time in many years Sandalphon had felt fear.

There have been expeditions since. Sandalphon told me how each successive team either failed to return or gave up on finding the growing mound of bodies for themselves. Millions flocked to the Delight of Ages eager for the answer, even knowing it would send them to Arawn. Eventually the Sidar outlawed the practice, and in time the location was forgotten. This is why the Sidar stay to their lands. They know that there are some secrets that are beyond us, and they also know well not to wish too hard for proof of the divine.”

The Luridus left without a word. Gregory’s books were returned and he departed Belerien the next day with an official apology, never happier that he knew that value of a good story.

The Coup:
Turn 16: An Opportunity
Part One: A Heated Session in Senate Chambers

Most of the senators were only too eager to get through the mostly boring and uninteresting issues brought before the senate that morning. All were impatient to tackle the major issue troubling their constituents and the senate itself: the Calabim embargo.

Finally, after several minor issues had been dealt with, first speaker Rodrick Bellisam cleared his throat and bellowed, “That concludes the issue of the Lutsel’ke land amendments. Let us turn our attention to the issue of the Calabim embargo.” He would have continued except that the previously near-silent marble hall was suddenly filled with raucous voices and arguments all struggling to be heard amongst the rest.

This continued for some time as the first speaker allowed his fellow senators to discuss the issue before finally demanding silence, “The floor recognizes senator Karem Gurek, former minister of trade and current representative of the Nimarail merchant’s guild”

With an encouraging nod from his friend and the current minister of lands, Yilderum Camil, the slimly built senator dressed in a finely embroidered Grigori silk sheesh stepped to the podium. “Fellow senators, colleges, friends, the issue of the Calabim embargo is a complex one and certainly of grave concern and seriousness for those present today.” Heads nodded throughout the audience. The merchant and former trade minister was well liked and his words were heard with respect by most. Many held that it was his propositions and ideas that dragged the Amurites from the wretched poverty of the civil war to the relatively prosperous nation it was today and his words held weight not just amongst his fellow merchants but throughout the noble houses and among the academics. The guilds often followed his lead and there were even a sizeable minority amongst the farmers and craftsmen who considered his voice to be that of wisdom and prosperity. Clearing his throat, he pronounced, “The embargo is unpopular amongst our foreign allies, has cost us technology and gold to establish and doesn’t seem to be producing the results we had hoped for.” Amongst the merchants and even amongst some of the Farmer’s party there were nods and muted agreement. “I propose that we end the embargo now and recuperate what financial gains there are to be won before this project drains our treasuries.”

The next to speak was Heymon Greytooth, a Khazad dwarf representing the jewellers and jewellery merchants. The Khazad, though a small population amongst the Amurites, held more than their share of seats on the senate by virtue of their wealth and mercantile ingenuity. His voice was sure and calm, “Not all merchants would agree with you fellow senator. Despite your years of experience, we dwarves have been trading and hoarding wealth for longer then you can remember and we know that trade and economics are not only about generation of trade, but about competition and struggle for wealth and resources. While the embargo has hardly affected us, indeed with our new trading fleets, trade is better then ever, the embargo is strangling our competition and securing routes and resources for our own merchants. This is one senator who will vote to maintain the embargo.” The dwarf sat down to much less muted agreement and more emphatic nods, most of them coming from the Sunrise League, the Mithril Order and the Religious senators.

Again, Rodrick Bellisam took the podium, “Our next speaker is Hüdaverdi Uzunçarsili, senator and grand patriarch of the Order of Junil.” A hush fell over the senators as the highly respected and often feared old man took the podium.

“Fellow senators,” he began, in a characteristic rasping voice acquired, it was said, in the civil war from demonic poison gas, “We know that you are worried about representation and the role of man and vampire in government…”

“Here! Here!” many of the senators and especially the supporter of Yilderum Camil were heard to say.

Senator Uzunçarsili continued, “and we know you are worried about your pocket books and piles of gold, but few of you are speaking today of something greater. I would like to remind you of the place of the immortal soul in all this. You’ve heard my arguments before: a vampire steals the soul of its victim. That soul never reaches Junil, regardless of how devout the victim was. The souls of the followers of other gods never see their gods’ heavens either. And do you think that a subservient soul of Aeron who is consumed goes to Aeron’s vault to live in paradise? Think again!!! This is the god of violence and pain, rage and base desires. Their subservience in life continues in the afterlife. The soul is doomed to suffer for all eternity. You know how the order-abiding senators will vote. The embargo continues. Nay, it tightens! This is our voice, our vote!”

Patriarch Hüdaverdi Uzunçarsili had not relinquished the podium when another priestly senator, Soner Çölasan, a younger priest only recently appointed to represent the Nimarail abbey jumped up, intensity and determination animating his angry frame and flashing in his dark eyes. “Vote?” he shouted. “Why should we vote? We let these heathens and unbelievers decide for us?” he pointed at the ranks of senators in a sweeping gesture that lingered just a little longer on the Radical academics. “These blasphemers? Our principles and our code are diluted and tarnished at every turn. It took a Khazad scholar to remind us,

LDiCesare said:

"What is your greatest calling?"
"Obediance. Unquestioning obediance".
From chapter 2 of Reflections on the State Cults, by Elder Methyl of the Luonnatar (and FfHpedia)
Crusaders are fanatics who follow orders without questions, not democratic Greeks who elect their leaders and dispute their orders.

Click to expand...

“Can you not hear the truth of his words? If a Khazad scholar can determine the truth of Junil’s code, what has blinded you old fools? We must obey. To quibble and make concessions to these agnostics and worse is unacceptable. Would we be like the catamite Grigori who pleasure their pederast vampire lords?” His words were spoken with passion and anger. His face was red (where it could be seen through his sheesh) and he gesticulated wildly. With every word he took a step towards the podium and his master, the patriarch of the Order of Junil, the senator Hüdaverdi Uzunçarsili. With every word he pointed at his master, a sharp stabbing motion who’s sheer intensity caused the older and highly respected man to take a half step back at the unexpected ferocity of the younger priest’s faith and passion.

The moment hung in the air like a poisoned blade in mid-throw. The image bore into the eyes and minds of all the senators present. Never, absolutely never, had a priest of Junil questioned a higher ranking priest. Certainly none had ever questioned the patriarch and certainly none had ever questioned his authority so openly, before so many influential men and women. It was a moment that hung in the senators’ consciousness forever and words that changed the winds of Amurite history.

The patriarch was quick to recover however, and yelled as best as he could in his ruined voice, “Guards! Seize this man and place him under arrest.” With calm and deliberation he spoke directly to the renegade Soner Çölasan. “You will be crucified for this.” These were not figurative threats.

Despite the death sentence, the younger priest was not so easily silenced, “Then I will be martyr for the true believers. Repent for your sacrilege, for having sold the soul of Junil’s code to uphold your precious ‘representation’ and play the puppet to these heathens. I would rather serve a Balseraph jester or even a demon-summoning Caswellan if only they pledged their soul to Junil.” He spoke the last words with dignity and force, speaking clearly from some place deep and clear, and, taking a final giant stride towards the patriarch of the Amurite church of Junil, spoke a simple quiet prayer. Those who were nearby heard his whispered plea, “Great Junil, the law-giver, bless me this day and give me the strength to guide our people to you. Give me the strength to tear down the corruption in your church and set us on the right path. I pledge to you my life and my soul,” with that a white glow formed in his hand and quickly coalesced into a short, wide-bladed sword, glinting with internal light and leaving a trail of sparkling white embers as it formed.

For a moment Patriarch Uzunçarsili was afraid. That Junil should answer this fanatic madman’s prayer scared him and he looked to the guards for help. They were too stunned by the symbolic confrontation to act and too far away to reach him in time. The old priest would have to confront this renegade himself. Hüdaverdi spoke a prayer of his own, “Junil protect me this day and shield me from the blade of this traitorous deserter who dares to defy the Order and the hierocracy.” Unlike Soner Çölasan, his prayer was loud and for all to hear and like the younger priest, his prayer too was answer. A shimmering field of silver formed before the patriarch and coalesced into a shinning steel shield.

Soner Çölasan was undaunted. With a final stride he raised his blade and silently stabbed the older man. The shield of faith exploded before Soner’s stabbing blade and Junil’s anger sunk deeply into the center of the patriarch’s chest. As the patriarch fell, it was as if the god of law himself had spoken to all assembled directly. Junil's people would never been the same.

Two days later there wasn’t a single Amurite soul who didn’t know what had occurred in senate chambers. And there wasn’t a single soul who wasn’t discussing the implications of such a grave occurrence.

The Patriarch Uzunçarsili had died from Soner’s ‘faith blade’ almost immediately, the first blood to be spilled in the senate chambers. Soner Çölasan had been arrested and already the patriarch’s punishment had been carried out; Soner’s corpse now lay strung from a wooden X in the courtyard of Cevedes abbey.

Priests everywhere were unsure what to think and to whom their allegiance was due. They were of a faith that demanded unquestioning obedience but one of their own had broken those vows, had dared disobey the patriarch he thought was corrupt and, with the blessing of the law-giver himself, had struck down and killed the patriarch. Did the priests owe their allegiance to the patriarch and the hierocracy as they had always been thought or did the manner of the patriarch’s death mean that renegade Çölasan was correct? Was it time to build a new organization, one that did not take orders from a league composed of all sorts of squabbling petty interests, including those of unbelieving merchants, heathen academics and even agnostics who could not care less for the all important immortal soul? Had a new day arrived?

The confusion of the priests was not confined to the abbeys and monasteries; they continued to sermonize and each seemed to have a slightly different opinion of the matter to share with the laity. The laity was that much more confused. Not only was there a giant rift forming in the church, but the priests themselves didn’t always know on which side of the rift they stood. They wished to serve Junil, but did they serve him best by obeying the established hierocracy or by joining the renegade martyr, Soner Çölasan who dared to strike down the patriarch and yet seemed to retain the guidance and protection of the law-giver.

And the issue of representation…what of that? For the laity, the republic had been a source of pride. Now many had to choose between what appeared to be Junil’s direct wishes and their love for representation. What was it that Soner had said? “I would rather serve a Balseraph jester or even a demon-summoning Caswellan if only they pledged their soul to Junil.” What did that mean? “Demon-summoning Caswellan?” He couldn’t have been speaking in a literal sense could he? The senate had always been fractured in regards to the role of the Caswellan. For so long, the senate had been engaged in a struggle between the Radical Academics and Merchant Guilds and the Sunrise league traditionalists to weaken the church of Junil and their opponents, led mostly by the now-deceased patriarch to bring order’s influence to the senate. It had been Luwin Born-in-Storm of the radical academics who had almost taken the seat of ‘first speaker’ in the last elections through a combination of shrewd politicking, secret deals, and bribery. He had vowed to crown himself as Caswellan. Everyone knew he was no follower of Junil, but if he had been…? The laity and the devout were never so bewildered. What did their lord want?

Not all were so confused by the rift in Junil’s church. Already, Yilderum Camil, known by many as the father of the republic was busy gathering support, making deals, negotiating concessions and compromises amongst the various senatorial parties. The rift in the church could very well spell the end of his beloved republic and he could not allow that. The republic is what made an end to the civil war possible. Was not the basis of modern Amurite domestic and even foreign affairs a series of concessions and compromises who’s end result was to leave all those involved feeling like they had won some important matter while allowing some minor annoyance to slip by? The minister of lands who was once first speaker of the senate house, rode from one house to another, from guilds and nobles to farmers to town halls; everywhere he went his persuasive arguments and personal charisma gathered more and more followers and adherents. The amurites were creatures of their own destiny. It was their right and their duty to question. Even the laity and the devout must question, must learn to compromise and concede, to work together using the best tool they had, their voice, their representation, their senate. He urged them to turn their back on this rebel priest who dared to strike at the patriarch, the patriarch who had done so much to support the republic, the system of representation that was at the heart of every Amurite man, woman and child. Minister Camil was a persuasive speaker and years of politicking had sharpened his wit. His long list of allies and friends grew by the hour and soon he had a plan. He would hold the republic together, but it would, like everything else, cost him further compromises.

The church could be reunited; it just needed a cause.

Two days later there wasn’t a single Amurite soul who didn’t know what had occurred in senate chambers. And there wasn’t a single soul who wasn’t discussing the implications of such a grave occurrence.

The Patriarch Uzunçarsili had died from Soner’s ‘faith blade’ almost immediately, the first blood to be spilled in the senate chambers. Soner Çölasan had been arrested and already the patriarch’s punishment had been carried out; Soner’s corpse now lay strung from a wooden X in the courtyard of Cevedes abbey.

Priests everywhere were unsure what to think and to whom their allegiance was due. They were of a faith that demanded unquestioning obedience but one of their own had broken those vows, had dared disobey the patriarch he thought was corrupt and, with the blessing of the law-giver himself, had struck down and killed the patriarch. Did the priests owe their allegiance to the patriarch and the hierocracy as they had always been thought or did the manner of the patriarch’s death mean that renegade Çölasan was correct? Was it time to build a new organization, one that did not take orders from a league composed of all sorts of squabbling petty interests, including those of unbelieving merchants, heathen academics and even agnostics who could not care less for the all important immortal soul? Had a new day arrived?

The confusion of the priests was not confined to the abbeys and monasteries; they continued to sermonize and each seemed to have a slightly different opinion of the matter to share with the laity. The laity was that much more confused. Not only was there a giant rift forming in the church, but the priests themselves didn’t always know on which side of the rift they stood. They wished to serve Junil, but did they serve him best by obeying the established hierocracy or by joining the renegade martyr, Soner Çölasan who dared to strike down the patriarch and yet seemed to retain the guidance and protection of the law-giver.

And the issue of representation…what of that? For the laity, the republic had been a source of pride. Now many had to choose between what appeared to be Junil’s direct wishes and their love for representation. What was it that Soner had said? “I would rather serve a Balseraph jester or even a demon-summoning Caswellan if only they pledged their soul to Junil.” What did that mean? “Demon-summoning Caswellan?” He couldn’t have been speaking in a literal sense could he? The senate had always been fractured in regards to the role of the Caswellan. For so long, the senate had been engaged in a struggle between the Radical Academics and Merchant Guilds and the Sunrise league traditionalists to weaken the church of Junil and their opponents, led mostly by the now-deceased patriarch to bring order’s influence to the senate. It had been Luwin Born-in-Storm of the radical academics who had almost taken the seat of ‘first speaker’ in the last elections through a combination of shrewd politicking, secret deals, and bribery. He had vowed to crown himself as Caswellan. Everyone knew he was no follower of Junil, but if he had been…? The laity and the devout were never so bewildered. What did their lord want?

Not all were so confused by the rift in Junil’s church. Already, Yilderum Camil, known by many as the father of the republic was busy gathering support, making deals, negotiating concessions and compromises amongst the various senatorial parties. The rift in the church could very well spell the end of his beloved republic and he could not allow that. The republic is what made an end to the civil war possible. Was not the basis of modern Amurite domestic and even foreign affairs a series of concessions and compromises who’s end result was to leave all those involved feeling like they had won some important matter while allowing some minor annoyance to slip by? The minister of lands who was once first speaker of the senate house, rode from one house to another, from guilds and nobles to farmers to town halls; everywhere he went his persuasive arguments and personal charisma gathered more and more followers and adherents. The amurites were creatures of their own destiny. It was their right and their duty to question. Even the laity and the devout must question, must learn to compromise and concede, to work together using the best tool they had, their voice, their representation, their senate. He urged them to turn their back on this rebel priest who dared to strike at the patriarch, the patriarch who had done so much to support the republic, the system of representation that was at the heart of every Amurite man, woman and child. Minister Camil was a persuasive speaker and years of politicking had sharpened his wit. His long list of allies and friends grew by the hour and soon he had a plan. He would hold the republic together, but it would, like everything else, cost him further compromises.

The church could be reunited; it just needed a cause.

Minister Camil normally loved meetings of the senate. He loved the cool marble seats, the raucous and often highly animated debates, the tension of an important vote. He even loved the intrigue and secret dealings that often accompanied the voting process. They called him the father of the republic and though he had never admitted it, Yilderum Camil took an immense satisfaction from knowing the truth of that statement. He was from an older generation, one that remembered the horror of the Amurite civil wars and many thought that he was directly responsible for reassembling the failed state in the aftermath of that war. He took satisfaction in that thought also. It was he who had reconciled the warring factions, given them power to share between them and had given birth to the idea of representation. He so loved the entire idea of representation, the fairness, the inclusiveness of it, that he had pushed to extend it to the masses. His ideas of one man/one vote had been too radical for the other senators at the time, but still, he had achieved in one lifetime what no other man could have. Every man and woman in Amurite society was directly involved in government, in deciding the fate of the nation. It was a beautiful and poetic concept.

And now it was spreading. The Calabim king had drafted a questionably reasonable treaty that would see domestic power shared with a ‘council of man’. Silently and slowly, the minister mouthed the words, council of man… the words conveyed images of promise, of progressive thought and inclusiveness. If he had a been a religious man, Yilderum would offer a prayer to its success.

Though minister Camil normally enjoyed the senatorial meetings, today was different. The last meeting had been two weeks ago and, in the midst of voting on the Calabim embargo, one renegade priest had attacked and killed his patriarch, an act of blasphemy and treachery against both church and senate if he had ever seen one. Today, at the site of the crime a large intricately woven amber carpet had been spread. Presumably the stains of blood and spellcraft had not washed from the polished marble floor.

The act had tarnished the senate in other ways as well. Senatorial conclaves had not been held since the act and for two weeks over 30 of the senators, including the first speaker Rodrick Bellissam had apparently just vanished from the face of Erebus and now, here there were, ready to meet again as if they had never gone missing. The senators stood huddled in groups, whispering quietly to themselves, no doubt trying to win over opinions and votes regarding the Calabim embargo, the issue which had still to be decided.

Senatorial Minister Camil was confident that the embargo would be halted. He had shared his correspondence with the Calabim king with several of the senators and most were impressed with the spirit, if not the wording of the treaty. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad after all Yilderum thought.

First speaker Bellisam brought the senate to order in his customarily cold-voiced manner and quickly brought the senate to the issue of the Calabim embargo, “As you all remember, two weeks ago our vote regarding the Calabim embargo was rudely interrupted by the petty theatrics of imbecilic priests.” These coolly delivered words brought gasps from throughout the audience. Why was the first speaker insulting the priesthood so openly? He had always sought to treat them well so as to retain their support for his fragile government. Was he so insulted by their attack on the republic and its government that he was willing to throw all that away? Yilderum was confused. Some game was afoot; normally he wouldn’t mind- he had instigated plenty of backroom deals in his day, but this worried him, not the least because he had not been informed of any backroom deals. The feeling of having been left out of the real politics of the amurite senate left a queasy and disquieting feeling in his gut.

The head of the Amurite senate continued, “Today, we will not be voting on the Calabim embargo. It seems that several senators wish to vote on a related issue”

Yilderum nodded to senator Aygun, a friend of his with whom he shared many opinions and a love for the representative system. No words were spoken and yet the message was clear. Aygun stepped forward, “First speaker Bellisam,” he rotated to speak to the entirety of the senatorial chambers. Aygun was truly a gifted rhetorician and a fine statesman Yilderum thought and he could not help but be a little proud of his friend and protégé. “You cannot simply ignore the proposal brought before the senate. There are traditions, customs to uphold. In these troubled times we must cling to what protects us, what defines us.”

Rodrick was undaunted, “Once you hear the issue we are to vote on, I am sure you will understand why the calabim embargo will prove itself of little importance. I cede the floor to Turusan Erkan so that we may here his proposal.”

A stout bald-headed man with a sure manner and confident voice stepped towards the podium. Turusan Erkan was a fairly minor senator. He was an accomplished mage but was voted to his post by virtue of the support of the population of a Nimarail urban district. He was normally classified as an independent but was known to have allies both amongst the Radical Academics and amongst the Sunrise League. Despite these leanings, he represented common craftsmen, tradesmen and the poor and destitute. His position was a fine example of political balancing that many of the senators had grown quite proficient at. Yilderum leaned in to hear what he had to propose that was so important.

“Fellow senators, representatives of Amurite knowledge (a nod to the academics and mages), coin (a nod to the merchants), faith (a nod to the priests), production (a nod to the craftsmen and the farmer’s party) and people (a sweeping gesture to include all those he had not yet included),” Oh, he’s good thought Yilderum. “we gather here today with a proposal from the Calabim king. Many of you have already read it so I will just summarize its proposals. The king proposes, after much negotiation to accede to polling the population of the calabim empire in regards to the formation of a council of man. This polling will be performed by neutral,” the stout senator sneered at what he obviously thought was a patent falsehood “observers. We are not to allow our mind-reading mages to observe and ensure the truth of the matter. His moroi and haloi secret agents will be there to blackmail and threaten but we are to be armed only with unenchanted daggers.” Turusan Erkan was also a gifted speaker and his emotional appeal had already managed to incite booing and cries against the vampire king from the assembled senators in the crowd. “He invites us to add amendments to clarify issues but really all he has managed to do is allow his own power to be shared with those of his puppets. Vampires will never allow the calabim people to choose their own destiny. The embargo will not work.” Senator Erkan paused for affect, provided a brief glance to the assembled senators of the right (academics, merchants, traditionalists) and with a flourish pronounced, “That is why I propose we vote to bring power to the Calabim people by putting their government to the sword. Who will vote for a declaration of WAR?”


There were gasps throughout the senate, but not nearly as many as Yilderum would have expected. Many had known that this was coming. And this explained the strange behaviour of the senators over the last two weeks, the secret deals he had no privy to, the muted conversations that ended as he approached. But despite the pronouncement, Yilderum was not too worried. The merchants would never vote for war. War meant that their coffers would flow into equipping troops and recruiting soldiers and not into the development of commerce. The noble houses would be split, but many had no desire to see their soldiers wasted on some distant battlefield for a cause they did not believe in. The mages and the academics would vote against it; all they wanted was the senate budget to be spent on expanding the libraries and academies, on developing new sources of mana and on training adepts. No, despite what he assumed would be unflinching support from the priests and the Mithril order, the proposal would not pass.

But despite his calculations, Yilderum was not so sure and a fear crept into him.

According to the custom, senators would come forth and vote on the issue, addressing the assembly if they wished to. First speaker Bellisam invited the representatives of the priesthood and the order to cast the first votes. Yilderum noted that many of the senators had replacements sitting in for them today. Presumably there were many who could not in good conciousness take part in the process of democracy that they were so against. Yilderum silently shook his head at their misguided foolishness. Rodrick had been right: they were imbecilic and theatrical attention-whores. Of course, he could never say as much; their support was too important.

The order had control of 15 votes, a sizeable block. Their representative, a priest named Sâhîn Summerspring, the son of the famous now-deceased cultural minister and fan of Somnium and rugby stepped forward purposefully and without speaking, bent, grabbed hold of the exquisite amber carpet that covered the scene of the now-famous murder and with a quick, deliberate motion yanked it from its position and quickly rolled it up under his arm. “We vote,” he spat the words with distaste as he pointed to the bloodstains and burn marks on the floor before him, “to bring Junil and Order to the wretched Calabim people who for too long have suffered under the heal of their soul-leaching vampire masters.” Senator Summerspring glared at the assembly, daring any to defy him. The senators were quit for what seemed like forever, frozen before the intensity of his stare and the defiance of his act and suddenly his devout brothers and companions, as one, stood up and began applauding his audacity with enthusiasm and zeal. Soon they were joined by members of the Mithral order, some independents and even a select number of the Sunrise league. Throughout the assembly there were quit nods from all corners. Yilderum scowled; this was not a good way to cast the first votes.

The votes proceeded much as Yilderum had expected. The Mithral order and their supporters voted yes, stating a desire for land and glory. The farmers’ party voted against the proposal, stating that state funds should go to support the poor and the needy. The traders and craftsmen, he was proud to note, also voted against war.

Then things started to change. The merchants were divided. Many voted against the war, as he had expected, but many also voted for the war citing a growth in demand for war material and the expectation that the conflict would be concluded quickly and reap great financial rewards. Yilderum saw the work of the Khazad merchants and their particular brand of competitive finance in these opinions but was powerless to stop their votes.

Any further expectations were dashed when the majority of the Sunrise league voted for war. These were Yilderum’s people, his party and without consulting him, many had decided to ally themselves with the order and the mithril guard and vote for a war they had previously been against. What about the establishment of a calabim republic they had dreamed of? What of their arguments for the use of ‘soft power’ and sanctity of every man, woman and child’s life? What of the Kuriotate slaves whose lives they were basically just throwing away? He wanted to strangle them and shake the sense back into them. These men, who had once been his friends suddenly dumbfounded him. As they cast their votes no explanation was provided for their sudden change of heart. Yilderum was crushed and bewildered.

Thankfully the Elohim representative as well as the Luchuirp representative voted against the war, citing the sanctity of life amongst all the people of Erebus. While A small minority of the independents voted for war, most followed the Elohim and Luchuirp in supporting the sanctity of life and a disdain for violence.

Finally Yilderum was content. The balance was slightly in favour of peace and only the mages and academics remained. They would never vote for war; their precious libraries and studies were too important.

Senator Korkud Kusçu stepped forward. He was known to be the mouthpiece for the witch Nezaket Vedat. He was a cautious man who seldom spoke and almost never approached the podium. Today he did just that. Shyly, and with a nod to the first speaker, “The academics vote for war.”

It was over. The issue was decided. The senate had voted and somehow, surprisingly, they had voted to throw away all the negotiations, the investment in ‘soft power’ that Yilderum was so proud of. Yilderum lowered his head into his hands and let out a slow moan. He had been outwitted, outmanoeuvred. His trusted allies had acted behind his back to demolish all he had built. It was all too much.








a letter
From Amurite Minister of lands, Yilderum Camil,
To the King Agron of the Calabim

It is with the deepest sense of sadness and shame that I have written to warn you of the actions of those I once called friends. While you and I were negotiating the finer points of introducing a representative council to your government, secret negotiations have been occurring behind the scenes in backrooms and dark towers. The senators have betrayed their consulates and their values and voted to declare war on your nation. I can do nothing to stop them, but I cannot help but think that your negotiations were performed in truth and honesty and for that, I cannot allow your nation to be caught unawares by a surprise attack by the Amurites.

I will be crucified if any of the senate learn of my letter to you but I cannot help but care little. The republic I have been so fond of and which, in many ways, I consider my child is sick and poisoned and may well die. I beseech you to continue with the implementation of the ‘council of man’ amongst your people. If the Amurites cannot uphold an honest and true republic, then perhaps the Calabim can.

This will be the last letter you receive from me and I hope that we can meet some day but suspect we never will.

With fondness and respect,
Yilderum Camil

Truly, Rodrick Bellisam thought, the plans of the Radicals had been blessed. First there had been the division in the order of Junil resulting in the spectacular murder of the church’s patriarch during senate. Then there had been the successful manipulation of the senators and their factions in the corrupted vote to war with the Calabim. This had resulted in the marginalization of the pro-representative parties and ensured that any remaining organization within the church of Junil was sent to distant lands to fight a distant war. It didn’t matter to Rodrick, just as long as there weren’t here to interfere with the Radical’s plans. The representationists knew something was amiss, that their precious senate had been upended, but they could do nothing to stop it. The senate had voted according to its own laws and now the power lay in his hands.

And now, the letter, what greater blessing could those who hid behind the veil gift him? His luck was as blessed as his strategy and his ambition. He read it again,



Truly he had been blessed. The letter had been intercepted by the secret agents, lower-ranking members of the Radical Academics he had assigned to watch Yilderum Camil. He had expected the former first speaker to do something in response to the events in senate council, but to write to the enemy king, to warn them of war? This was more then just an act of defiance against Rodrick’s alliance, it was treason against the entire Amurite people. First speaker Rodrick Bellisam smiled.

Thankfully, the senate, and more importantly, senate law, saw it the same way and by order of the senate as well as the courts, Yilderum Camil, known as the father of the republic, and beloved by all who held that the formation of the republic was responsible for the recovery of the Amurites, was sentenced to death by crucifixion. It was a glorious moment for Rodrick; one of his greatest enemies had been undone by his own doing and that enemy’s allies had no choice but to join with him in condemning minister Camil to death.

And that brought them to today, to this cold autumn day in the Cevedes plaza where the wooden ‘X’ stood waiting its sacrifice. Yilderum Camil kneeled at its base, too weak from the 4 days he had spent in the dungeons to struggle or even stand. As Rodrick’s most loyal bodyguards pulled the former first speaker into position and bound his wrists and ankles to the ‘X’ with leather bands, Rodrick delivered the speech he had been practicing since the sun had risen.

“Amurites of all stripes, tradesmen, craftsmen, merchants, farmers, scholars, students, priests and officials,” he began, his voice echoing across the entire city, amplified by air mana, “today is a day of sadness and grief for us. Our beloved minister Camil, former first speaker and the inspiration for the righteous senate we have built together, each and every one of us, has made a grave error in judgment. He had to make a choice. On one hand he had the choice to uphold the sanctity of the senate he helped to create, to be truthful to his brothers and sisters, his fellow amurite citizens. On the other, he could choose to take the loss of his political party’s influence in parliament personally, to see it as an affront to the principles he so long cherished, to seek vengeance and even… to betray his people.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have all had our good days and our bad days. Sometimes a merchant loses money to a bad sale or spoiled product. Occasionally the farmer’s crop withers in the ground for lack of rain. The craftsmen may misplace his tools or crack his creation for lack of attention. But what do we do in these circumstances? Does the merchant burn his warehouse? Does the farmer rip up his crops? Does the craftsmen upturn his workshop? No! We are not children; we accept that this was ‘not our day’ and we move on, to regroup and strengthen ourselves for the next time we are to engage ourselves.

“But not poor minister Camil. For too long he has been winning. He has forgotten that there must always be someone who must compromise, give up their stubborn ways, to lose even. Not every vote in senate house can go your way. Yilderum saw his allies vote against his wishes, saw them think for themselves like children that had grown up and had finally had the courage to tell their father, “No, that is your way and we will do it no longer. Now, we will do it our way.” But minister Camil was too proud; he could not accept defeat. When the senate voted to go to war with the Calabim, when his foolish, expensive, and frankly, unrealistic dreams of a bloodless coup through an economic embargo were shattered with the wisdom of logic and the devotion of pure compassion, he was so angry, so disappointed that he wrote a letter to the Calabim king warning him of our attack. Because of this letter the enemy has infused its soldiers with the blood of their vampire lords, giving them foolish courage and mindless bravery and costing us so very much.

“And now, because of that letter, our soldiers are dying when they need not die. Our blood is being spilled and so too is the blood of the innocent calabim citizenry. And for what? For one man’s pride? For one man’s foolish and ill-spent ideals? The senate has voted on the matter and the courts agree, the letter minister Yilderum wrote to the calabim is an act of treason and the punishment is… death.”

He had expected cheers; it was a rather well-written speech after all, but the crowds were silent. Some wiped tears from their faces and many offered prayers to the law-giver. Time seemed to stretch into eternity and no one moved. Finally, quietly and without drawing attention, first speaker Rodrick Bellisam quit the podium and joined the crowd in quit contemplation and shared grief. He had been successful in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Soon the radicals would seize power… but at what price?

Some began to sob quietly and though it was a cold day and the wind bit and sucked the heat from the assembled crowd, the people did not stray.

Yilderum Camil looked down at the assembled crowd; he too had tears in his eyes.

It was the end of an era.

Ejder Sihâbeddîn was anxious. He wanted to act now.
For him, things were very simple. There were no shades of gray. He was a priest of Junil. He upheld obedience and oaths of fealty above all else. He had pledged his obedience to the late patriarch Hüdaverdi Uzunçarsili and patriarch Uzunçarsili had pledged the Order’s support to the republic, provided that it was true to itself and its laws. Now the revered patriarch Uzunçarsili was martyred, slain by the rebel priest Soner Çölasan’s blade. The priesthood was split, but just because someone claimed to speak for Junil did not make it so. Ejder knew where his fealties lie; he would uphold the republic that his sworn master Uzunçarsili upheld. By the parlance of Amurite politics, this made him a representationist. But that’s not how he thought of it; he was merely an obedient slave, a most devout follower of the god of laws.
All this brought him to this moment, to this act of defiance against the corrupted senate, the hated puppet of the Reformists, men and women who sought a return to the ‘bad old days’ when demons were summoned forth and walked the earth spilling Amurite blood, when souls were bought and sold like currency and the good, the order, the laws of Junil were foolishly ignored. This was unacceptable; something had to be done.
Ejder was an eager recruit for the task at hand. It had been Cahid Göyünc’s idea. Cahid was the senior member of the fractured Order of Junil, the highest ranking ‘representationist’ priest. There were others also. Lokman Kasaba and Gülistan Hikmet were two very respectable priests in their own rights, with small parishes who supported them and their drive to restore the senate; each commanded a small group of poorly armed but extremely motivated ‘crusaders’ (peasants really, but their holy mission made them something greater than that). In addition to the represenationists, there was unexpected assistance from the new order. These were priests who saw the corruption in the senate but instead of wanting to heal the sickened institution, wanted to replace it with something (he wasn’t sure what) else. They claimed that the senate would always be the tool of too many voices, many of which were not even followers of Junil, many were heretics, followers of hated faiths, the veil, even… the saint’s cult. Many were unknown followers of the lord of greed. They claimed that the senate’s goals and motivations were not compatible with those of Junil’s order. They were especially prone to point to the power of Soner Çölasan’ blade of faith against the faith shield of the ancient patriarch to provide Junil’s opinion. This was maddening for Ejder, but today he was glad that some that held these new opinions had closed ranks with members of the representationist priests. The small contingent, barely two dozen in total was led by Prior Marcos Yildizoglu, former crusade commander and now, by virtue of political wrestling, an abbey prior. In addition, the charismatic and popular Sâhîn Summerspring who held Soner to be a martyr and had done much to convince Junil’s laity of that, was amongst them. What a senator was doing in the streets, involving himself in a potentially deadly and assuredly violent and illegal act, Ejder could not be sure of, but he respected him all the more for it. There were two non-priests also. Two mages had joined them today. The first was Ðzzet Safavî. Ejder did not know too much about him but he did know that the Radicals’ and their cronies were looking for him, that he was a wanted man charged with treason. This struck Ejder as funny and he snorted; after today they would all be charged with treason. What did he care? The state was corrupt and he knew his faith was pure. The second mage was a young woman, Mihriban Recep. She was barely 20 years old and had only just recently finished her apprenticeship to the archmage Tevfik Turhil.
Ejder surveyed the courtyard. Poor Yilderum Camil had been hanging from the crucifix for over 16 hours. Ejder could tell that he was having significant difficulty breathing. He kept trying to draw his knees up to his chest but the bindings were only loose enough to allow them to bend a little bit. But the former first speaker did not look fearful or lost, he appeared sorrowful, sorrowful and tired. Ejder looked again at Prior Marcos Yildizoglu who had been put in charge of this operation. What was he waiting for? When would they mount his rescue? Night had fallen and the crowds had thinned somewhat (though not too greatly). He knew that the mage Mihriban had provided inside information regarding who in the crowd was a guard in disguise and which of the guards were capable with a sword or whispered spell (though how she came by this information was unknown- though he did have his suspicions).
He could feel the tension in the cold autumn night. He longed to summon Junil’s faith to him, to feel Junil’s wrath manifest in a spear of purest divinity weighing in his hand like an uttered prayer. He longed to hurl that spear at the corrupt guards who had sold their morality and ethics for a place of power in the corrupted new regime.
He didn’t have to wait long; suddenly Prior Marcos had thrown his peasant’s disguise revealing shining bronze armour and a wickedly sharp, wide-bladed shortsword. Charging across the courtyard he led his men in absolute silence. It was time.
Edjer muttered the prayer that would cloak him and the men and women he commanded in Junil’s protective divinity and a second prayer to summon the spear he so longed to wield. His ‘crusaders’ drew knives and clubs.
With the element of surprise and with advance knowledge of the enemy’s positions, the battle progressed well. Ejder was able to slay one guard with a thrust that caught him directly below the adam’s apple and a second with a spear throw from 30 feet.
The enemy was quick to adapt however. Amongst the tearful crowd were several of the radical academic’s own soldiers, guards sent specifically to prevent a rescue attempt such at this. One of these was Lalegün Yamak, an apprentice of professor (of summoning studies) Leyla Ilahi, and an accomplished summoner in her own right. With a whispered spell, the courtyard was suddenly filled with flying dark wings and horrible cackling laughter. The smell of sulphur and something worse filled the autumn courtyard. Ejder recognized entropy magic; this was something the amurites did not teach; these spells came from somewhere else, no doubt from the hells themselves.
The creatures were flit about, snapping at the crusader peasants and their priest commanders. Liquid splashes of silvery lightning spat from the mage Recep’s fingers, bringing down several of the demons and the mage Safavî summoned a dancing scimitar of bronze which flew through the air, hacking and cutting the demons. Prior Marcos’s bronze shortsword hew many of them in twain as he stood protectively before the crucifix, providing protection to the peasant who untied Yilderum Camil.
In the end the demons were driven off or slain, and so too was Lalegün Yamak, slain by the faith blade of Sâhîn Summerspring. The guards lay dead or had run. The cost had been great. Many of the crusader peasants lay dead, slain by the demons’s claws or the guards’ spears. Lokman Kasaba was dead, completely decapitated by a demon’s furious clawing, his body chewed up and half eaten. Gülistan Hikmet lay lying in a pool of blood, a spear still piercing his bowels.
As Ejder surveyed the damage, Prior Marcos was already leading Yilderum Camil away. A boat awaited him. He would be safe… for now.

Luwin Born-in-Storm peered through the swirling snow as it fell lazily from the heavens. From his vantage point he could see the monks and priests of Cevedes abbey going about their morning prayers, eating, washing. The clergymen ate together in a grand covered hall, they prayed together in rows outside facing a statue of Junil’s holy symbol, the balance, blade and shield. They wore long clergyman’s robes that unlike the sheesh most other amurites wore, left their heads and faces exposed. Luwin thought their exposed bristles and oily hair offensive.
The grand witch Nezakat Vedat who styled herself the next Caswellan and Roderick Bellisam, current first speaker of the Amurite parliament and her apprentice had carefully orchestrated the planned raid upon the abbey but they would not take part. Command had been delegated to Luwin, something he was only too happy to accept. The premise was simple: Yilderum Camil was a traitor and a criminal. He had been sentenced to die by crucifixion. The priests of the Cevedes abbey had led an assault on the troops of the republic, including a respected member of the ruling ‘Academics’ party, Lalegün Yamak. Therefore, the priests of the abbey were also criminals, guilty of treachery and worse. Luwin was the voice and arm of the law. He had come to arrest the priests of the abbey and bring them, and their protectorate to justice. Of course, the witch Nezakat was never that simplistic. Her divinations had already long-ago revealed that Yilderum Camil was not at the abbey, indeed he never had been. Her true intentions was not the arrest of the priests, it was their destruction. Their very existence was a continuous thorn in her side and a foil to her plans of establishing her long-coveted magocracy. Though very few others really remembered the battles between the first crusaders of Junil’s order and the Caswellan mages during the civil wars, she did and she knew what power they could bring to bear against her plans if she did not stop them now. They would not be arrested; they would be slaughtered to the very last man. Luwin was there to ensure that was exactly what happened.

Luwin gave the signal to his standard bearer and the boy dipped the heraldry and gave a figure-eight wave of the standard. Immediately, in the streets far below him, militia men armed with shortswords and shield began to march towards the abbey. These were the bulk of Luwin’s forces. These militia were loyal to the senate and as long as the Academics and Roderick Bellisam controlled the senate, they would be loyal to Nezakat and, in turn, to Luwin. The militia marched, in typical Amurite orderly fashion (something Luwin couldn’t help detest as a sign of the Order’s influence even as he respected the discipline involved), keeping their pace by striking their shield with their swords as they advanced. Immediately the abbey was abuzz with activity. Breakfasts were abandoned and prayers were hastened as the priests scrambled to prepare to meet the advancing division. The priests, Luwin knew, would be well armed, armoured and trained. Sure enough, many of the priests began to outfit themselves in mail of interlocking horizontal bands of bronze, and to arm themselves with the typical long spear and shortsword of Junil’s crusaders. Luwin knew these clergymen would be slow moving due to the weight of their amour and weapons but he also knew that they would be empowered with divine endurance and that their amour could turn back blow after blow even as their own weapons skilfully hewed at their enemy. A direct fight between the heavily armoured clergymen and the republic’s militia would not turn out well for the militia. Luwin smiled: good thing it wouldn’t be a direct fight.

Luwin’s ace was the men and women who shared the high balcony with him. They were a small group, barely 40, crowded in the halls and chambers in the upper levels of senator Korkud Kusçu’s estate, a prime location to watch the battle in the abbey from and an even better location to sling spells from with impunity. All of them were mages loyal to the Radical Academics and the dream of a new magistocracy where they would be the new power in the Amurite nation and all were loyal to the witch Nezakat which meant that today, they were loyal to Luwin.

Suddenly the steady banging of the militia’s blades upon their shields ceased and Luwin peered through the swirling snow. The battle had begun. The white snow-clad steps of the abbey gatehouse were suddenly splashed with crimson blood. It appeared that the clergymen were ‘resisting arrest’.

A second signal and suddenly the manor halls were full of whispered incantations. The air around Luwin began to shimmer and vibrate. The smell of sulphur and ozone filled the air and suddenly the winter morning was full of cackling, clawed and winged demons that the entropy summoners called ‘stirge’, flickering balls of light crackling with electricity and ozone that the air summoners referred to as ‘lightning elementals’ and something else, the summons of the mind conjurers. Luwin dared not close his eyes, knowing that if he did, he would see these creatures, these ‘mind gobins’ and he would prefer not to do that.


The soldiers had shouted something about an arrest warrant and a ‘search for Yilderum Camil’ but had not waited for a response. Instead they had charged the priests, swords drawn and many had fallen to the priests spears and swords. These militiamen seemed courageous to a fault, foolhardy even and many a priest wondered if they had not been ensorcelled with unnaturally foolish bravery to ensure they would attack a highly defendable position manned by heavily armoured holy warriors. It was tantamount to suicide. Despite this, the militiamen were not without some successes. Despite heavy losses, their fool-hardy aggression was beginning to cause some attrition to the defenders and already a half-dozen priests lay dead upon the abbey steps, their rapidly cooling blood instantly melting the snow that fell upon it.

Morale was good amongst the priests however. This was their abbey and, although many of the priests were missing this morning (the so-called ‘New Order’ faction had been called off by Prior Marco to meet, in secret, with potential allies) they still numbered at least two-thirds of the miltia’s numbers and one crusader priest was easily the equal to ten of the militiamen, especially in this fortified defensive position.

Suddenly that morale was shaken however as the rear ranks of the priests, who had previously been using their long spears to stab at the enemy over the heads of their fellow priests were struck with jagged bolts of electricity. In many cases, the hearts of the priests stopped completely as the voltage coursed through their bodies. For others their end came as the bronze amour they wore blackened and burned them. Those that survived turned to face this new aggressor and realized that they were fighting some magical creature, a ball of light that flew and flit about almost more rapidly than could be followed with the eyes. These quick little creatures would stay out of range of the priests, flying above and behind them, dodging spear thrusts and sword slashes, only to suddenly close the distance, ducking under a spear or over a sword to deliver a lethal shock of lightning that would strike the defender with often lethal violence.

Just as more and more of the priests turned to face the new aggressors and lend their spears to their brother’s defence, the mages’ second summons appeared. These were the ‘stirges’, demonic four-armed, four-winged flying creatures that cackled maniacally as they fought, their claws hewing at exposed flesh and tearing at buckles and openings in the mail. Many a priest was brought low by frenzied slashes to the neck or wrists, the unprotected calves and armpits.

Soon any semblance of formation dissolved as the priests spread throughout the courtyard, fighting the flying aggressors who would dive at the clergymen, strike, climb, wheel about for a second dive and renew their attack. They would attack in waves, ensuring no rest for the weakened priests and putting their divinely-inspired endurance to the test. Only near the gate, where the now heavily outnumbered priests fought the republic’s militia did any sort of organized defensive formation remain.

Then something strange happened. Priests, apparently under no direct assault, divine blade in hand, protective shield of faith encircling them, would fall to their knees clutching their heads. Blood would suddenly gush from their nose, their ears, their mouths and even their eyes and they would fall to the snow-covered stones, dead. Then another priest would suffer a similar attack. It was only when one of the defenders closed his eyes, even momentarily, that they realized what was happening. Closing ones eyes prevented one from seeing the chaos around them, of seeing the lightning elementals and the stirge, but it brought into stark and vivid view the ‘mind goblins’. When one closed one’s eyes one could see little creatures, barely 2 feet tall, grappling with the heads of the priests, their fingers sinking through their skin and skulls and squeezing, squeezing and ripping the minds of the defenders who did not realize where the attack was coming from. Some priests were able to figure out to close their eyes and, with eyes closed, they would grapple with the smaller goblin-creatures, able to see and fight them, but their closed eyes left them defenceless to the onslaught of the ‘stirge’ and ‘lighning elementals’ and they would quickly fall.


It was all over within a matter of 30 minutes. The priests had fought valiantly, but Luwin’s mages had won the day with their combined summons. Luwin whispered an air mana spell and he a half-dozen of his higher ranking mages suddenly floated into the air. Behind him he could hear other mages repeating the same spell. The delegation was aloft.

The mages flew into the abbey courtyard and drew their own swords. The spread out and one by one, finished off any of the priests who had not yet died to the summons or the militia. Any wounded man was slain. Any who had surrendered was slain. They even searched the warehouses and inner sanctum, looking for those who were too old or infirm to fight, and finding a couple dozen, slew them too.

Junil’s order had received a serious blow. Their central abbey, the greatest concentration of high-ranking priests of Junil had been destroyed. Soon the flames were licking at the morning sky, burning the snowflakes as they fell.

But Luwin was uneasy. As he glanced about, he couldn’t help but think that many of the best known priests were not amongst the dead. Where was Prior Marcos Yildizoglu? Where was Senator Sâhîn Summerspring? Indeed, many of the ‘New Order’ were completely absent.

This was not the end of Junil’s Order. Luwin couldn’t help but think that despite the victory he had achieved, his mistress’s objectives had not been met.

Ðzzet Safavî was on the run. Two days ago he had escaped Luwin Born-in-Storm not with magic but with a bit of sleight of hand and a pinch of the strange ‘snort’ powder. He had run all night, avoiding the use of any magic so as to not set off an astral signature an accomplished mage pursuing him might follow. He had slept in a barn full of stinking livestock and spent the day like a commoner, slinking along city streets keeping his hood high and his eyes downcast.

After two days of slow, magicless travel, he finally arrived at the offices of the one person he knew he could trust, Tevfik Turhril. Old Tevfik had a colourful history. Once he had been a commanding officer in Tyrion the Caswellan’s mage army and he had summoned his share of demons in his youth, but those days were long past. When Yilderum Camil built the amurite senate, he had been elected to the post of minister of foreign affairs. What no one had expected was that Minister Turhril would embrace the faith of his former enemies, seeing in it an order and a righteousness that could guide the recovering Amurite nation to wholeness. Indeed, Tevfik became one of the earliest and most influential proponents of Junil’s influence in political life. His choices cost him the support of the merchants houses and nobles and any crumbling remains of the magocracy and despite his new friends amongst the devout, he was unable to maintain his political career. Now an old man, Tevfik continued to practice magic, teaching at the grand college and balancing a cutting edge academic life with a fulfilling spiritual life that he shared with all members of his family.

Yes, the fugitive Ðzzet thought, this man was just the ally he needed, a mage like him who would put his career and his friends on the line to uphold his faith. Besides, where else could he turn?

Finally arriving at the offices of the former minister Ðzzet was unexpectedly hurried into a backroom by Tevfik’s apprentice and scribes. He was given a tub of hot water, soap, a razor and even a fresh sheesh similar to the stained one he currently wore. It seemed his arrival was not completely unexpected. After cleaning himself of the grime and dust of his travels and indulging in a relaxing massage from a smiling young servant with surprisingly strong fingers, Ðzzet Safavî was finally able to relax and put his thoughts in order. He was safe with Tevfik, or so he thought. But, he had been given a warm welcome which suggested he had been expected. None knew he was coming here, did they? He had some questions to ask and the old minister was just the one to answer them.

Quitting the back chambers, Ðzzet was led by the apprentice to a small courtyard built into the side of the academy. Despite the lush grasses and floral and fruit trees, the garden was several floors above ground level and he could look down and see the city of Cevedes bustling with commercial activity. The courtyard was not empty. Several men and women in variously hued sheeshes huddled under the blossoms of a plum tree and were discussing some issue in animated whispers. Fingers and hands were flying about, punctuating points and bringing passion to their words. From their body-language, they were obviously deliberating something of vital shared interest.

The apprentice announced his arrival by clearing his throat and simply stating, “Senator Ðzzet Safavî has arrived” and suddenly all eyes were on him.

The first to speak was the man he had come to see, the former minister Tevfik Turhil, “Greetings young senator Safavî, we were expecting you.”

He would have continued but was interrupted by a slightly built man in a yellow and gold sheesh and piercing blue eyes. Peering into his sheesh Ðzzet recognized him as Cüneyt Kasapoglu, a very accomplished mage in his own right, a respected member of the academic faculty and… a member of the Radical Academics. Suddenly Ðzzet was gripped by panic. Cüneyt had attended the radical’s party at the witch Nezakat Vedat’s manor where that demon had shown itself. He knew! Suddenly Ðzzet was furious at himself for trusting that old minister Turhril. The fury turned to fear and he was about to cast a spell to assist his escape when he noticed silver glinting from around Cüneyt’s neck; it was the sword and the circle of the holy order of Junil. And he was not the only one to wear the holy symbol. Glancing around, he noticed that all the men and women here wore the same symbol. They were all followers of Junil’s code. Indeed, as he examined the group more closely, he realized that he knew most of them, and many attended Junil’s services on the holy days. These men and women would not be summoning demons, would not be attacking the priesthood… or him. Suddenly he felt much safer.

Cüneyt Kasapoglu spoke, “Its nice to see you again. No please, don’t panic. We are friends here. Relax. Have a coffee. You’ve had a rough time of things but I am glad to see that you escaped that treacherous and vile Luwin. When you gasped your muted prayer at the radical’s party I thought for sure they would kill you. You were lucky they had been drinking or I think they would have been less lenient. You missed the best part though. Once you had been escorted out, Nezakat introduced her second series of allies, senators of the senate, merchant house representatives no doubt bought with gold as well as Rodrick Bellisam, first speaker himself.”

Ðzzet took a step back at the news, stumbling over an intricately patterned marble mosaic, only barely catching himself on a branch of the overhanging plum tree. The motion sent blossoms swirling throughout the air around him and added a symbolic moment of chaos to the one he felt within him.

A women in a pleasantly tight pale blue and white sheesh embroidered with foreign wildlife and with a light complexion and dark, sad eyes stepped forward. Ðzzet recognized her; the young woman was Efromiya Yilmaz, also a member of the radical academics and also an accomplished mage. Her husband of only 2 years had died last year and she had turned to her faith for support. Ðzzet had often seen her in the academy’s parks, mumbling quiet prayers to herself for her deceased husband’s soul. She held out her hand to steady him and mumbled, almost apologetically, “Its true senator. I was there. It seems that Nezakat has finally taken an apprentice. She must have promised him power over the realms of mana, over life and death, demons and angels to seduce him to her cause. They spoke at length after your departure regarding their goals. They are determined to take advantage of the rift in the order to crush Junil’s priests, discredit and dismantle the republic and finally seize power for themselves, setting Nezakat as the next Caswellan.”

Cüneyt continued in a much less muted fashion, stopping occasionally to sip at his heavily sugared coffee, “Their cabal appears to be led by Luwin Born-in-Storm, professor Leyla Ilahi, the professor and senator Turusan Erkan, lecturer and senator Korkud Kusçu, and Nezaket Vedat herself of course. As you can see, there upper echelon is full of accomplished mages with direct and indirect influence over the senate. A small proportion of their other members also have senate seats. They plan to use that influence to dispatch our armies to distant lands. They are proposing to declare war on the Calabim and between their own votes, their bribes and their backroom blackmails, the vote will probably proceed. With the army leaving, so too will most of the order’s soldiers and guards. Combine this with the current divisions within the order, and their primary enemy is severely weakened. They plan a very public and very final end to the splintered hierocracy and without the priests to lead them, they expect the laity to lose their way.”

Another member of the group spoke up, “That would never happen. We have too much faith to ever abandon Junil.” The impetuous speaker was Mihriban Recep, a very young mage of barely twenty years and a former apprentice to Tevfik Turhil. Ðzzet had met her previously but they had never spoken at length and he knew very little about her. Apparently she was a very devout follower of the order.

“No, of course that would never happen. But I don’t think that’s the point. They will use fear and intimidation to control the public.” Cüneyt looked exasperated at having been interrupted but quickly resumed sermonizing, all the while gently stirring he already much-stirred coffee, “With their enemy scattered they will declare themselves the government and dissolve the senate.”

“Former speaker Yilderum Camil would never allow it. Neither would his representationist senators or his protégé, senator Aygum. Everyone knows that the Elohim senator, Ettim the Swift is a strong pro-represenation voice as well. What do they plan to do to silence their voice? People will listen to the former speaker. He is beloved by the commoners.” This was from Yurdagül Jirecek, an older, plumper woman in a loosely-fitted sheesh known for her recent work with the Arcane Lacuna. Ðzzet had once been her student when studying containment magics and had enjoyed listening to the feisty woman who didn’t seem to back down in any discussion, even in the face of overwhelming logic. There was something quintessentially amurite about the matronly figure and Ðzzet liked her.

For once Cüneyt said nothing. He merely stared calmly at Ðzzet with his characteristic blue eyes. The silence was answer enough.

Ðzzet stepped from the shade of the plum tree and sat on the low marble wall separating the garden from the city below it. He looked out over the city and thought about everything he had seen and heard in the last week: the murder of the patriarch, Nezakat and her demons, Rodrick’s treachery, the coup the Radicals were organizing, the proposal to go to war. Quietly he meditated while the others stood waiting patiently, drinking coffee and enjoying the sunny day despite the weight of the news they had shared. Ðzzet’s thoughts milled and churned and he remembered something. He had been expected. Old devout Tevfik had arranged for him to meet these eight men and women here, now, with this news. This was no accidental meeting. They all shared a strong faith and they were all mages. They obviously didn’t want the Radicals to assume power but they had not yet alerted the order or the militia.

Ðzzet turned, a question on his lips. Tevfik spoke first, answering the unasked question, “The answer of course, is that we are attempting our own coup.”

Only the very long-live could remember a winter the likes of which gripped the Amurite nation that year. The balance of power had shifted in a very public and very real way with the raid upon Junil’s abbey in Cevedes. Many priests and monks had been slain that day. Those that survived had gone into hiding and performed their ceremony and liturgy from hiding, their flocks gathering in stables in the middle of the night, hidden caves far from the city, in basements and attics, knowing that at any moment the republic’s official police could break in, find the entire congregation guilty of treason against the state (the thinking being that the Order was responsible for the deaths of senators and guards, the release of a wanted traitor and, not least of which, resisting arrest- those that gathered and harboured them were harbouring fugitives and thus traitors also) and haul them off to who knows where.

With the army gone to fight in Calabim lands and the militia weakened and wounded from their assault upon Cevedes abbey, the senate had had no choice but to turn to the Radical Academics and hire their services, at great cost to the public coffers, to police and investigate the population. The radicals did so with the help of their summoned demons and soon enough the sight of a 6-armed fire-skinned Balor patrolling the streets of Cevedes was not so rare a sight.

Along with the change in political and military balance, the economic balance of power had shifted considerably. Those merchants who had sided with the ‘Traditionalists’ and the Radicals soon found they had their choice of juiciest contracts and trade contacts. Their ships and warehouses were only rarely investigated by the demonic police and then only superficially. None had to pay a fine. Those merchants that had sided with the Representationists, the hidden Order of Junil, or who had spoken against Roderick Bellisam’s new regime found themselves having to pay fine after fine for trumped up charges that oftentimes had no factual basis whatsoever, ultimately resulting in the loss of their ships and warehouses (and their sale to Radicals or their merchant cronies).

The old noble houses, many of whom had formally become merchant houses under the pressures and laws of the wealth-driven senate were divided almost half and half between those who supported Roderick Bellisam and the witch Nezakat Vedat’s new regime and those that did not. Oftentimes that division was based solely upon the role of faith and their views on Junil’s Order. Many a noble family had adopted Junil’s code and these soon found themselves at the receiving end of the new regime’s investigations and arrests.

Indeed it was dire times for all the people of the Amurite nation. While the majority of the people were strongly against the openly corrupt senate and its various puppets, their use of demons and the persecution of Junil’s priests and monks, there was little they could do.

And thus it was that on the 4th of February, a meeting of seven pro-Order mages and six ‘New Order’ priests and monks gathered in hiding in a quiet backroom of children’s section of the great library of Cevedes. Amongst stuffed animals and dusty puppets, large print books and colourful educational paintings, a group of thirteen very serious individuals met to discuss the future of the Amurites.

The group was led, at least unofficially, by the wizened old mage Tevfik Turhil. He was a staunch supporter of the Order and openly spoke against the service of priests and monks to a ‘diluted’ senate made up of ‘heretics, unbelievers and unholy warlocks and witches’. He dreamt of a new government where the leadership would be sworn servants of Junil’s Order, although the government he envisioned would not necessarily be led by the clergy. He and seven other mages made up what had become known as the ‘council of seven’. One of these was Behlül Bozbeyli, also a wizened old mage who served, many years ago as apprentice of Tevfik Turhil. He was a specialist in earth magic and had benefited greatly from the discovery of Killmorph’s standing stones on Faeng isle. The third was Cüneyt Kasapoglu. Cüneyt was, as far as the new regime was aware, a dedicated member of the Radical academics. His (and Tevfik Turhil’s) mastery of mind magic ensured that the enemy would not discover his hidden allegiance to Junil’s order. Through this crafty deception, Cüneyt had been able to relay much of the Radical’s plans to the Council of Seven and its allies. Ðzzet Safavî was also previously a radical academic but his open prayers dedicated to the law-giver upon the first revelation of demonic involvement had cut that relationship short. He was now a wanted man and had much difficulty operating in the open. Efromiya Yilmaz was also a radical academic. She had previously had little faith but upon the death of her husband had discovered the strength and support that Junil provided to the faithful and had never looked back. That didn’t mean she had to share that fact with the Radicals and like Cüneyt, she was able to act as a spy in the Radical’s camp. Mihriban Recep is perhaps the youngest member of the Council of Seven. She too was an apprentice of Tevfik Turhil. She professes her faith openly and has never been too involved in the affairs of the Radicals or their corrupting magicks. Yurdagül Jirecek rounded up the last of the Council of Seven. She was a professor at the academy and former teacher to several of the younger mages in attendance. She was a plump, matronly figure full of energy and passion for her cause.

In addition to the seven mages, there were several priests in attendance. All were supporters of the ‘New Order’; they believed that Soner Çölasan’s open murder of the ancient patriarch Hüdaverdi Uzunçarsili with a blade made of pure faith in Junil’s Order was a direct message from the law-giver that the ancient hierocracy had been corrupted by service to unrepentant unbelievers, heretics and even demon-worshipers. On the day of the ‘Cevedes Abbey Slaughter’ they had been involved in a previous meeting with the ‘Council of Seven’ and whether this was pure happenstance or the result of the council’s espionage activities had never been revealed. The result had been that while the ‘Old Order’ represenationists had been slaughtered, the ‘New Order’ priests had escaped attack and been free to continue preaching to the laity (though they had to do so in hiding). As a result the laity had mostly come around to their way of thinking: Junil’s Order was best served by support of a government made up wholly of believers. This would be impossible under a wealth-driven representationist senate. They had their martyr, Soner Çölasan to rally behind. Yilderum Camil’s escape had prevented a following to rise from his martyrdom in a similar way. Again, this may have been a purposeful intent of the Council of Seven and its allies, or it may not have. Either way it ended up strengthening the ‘New Order’ at the expense of the ‘Old Order’. The leaders of this ‘New Order’ movement were the senator Sâhîn Summerspring, who’s beloved father had been the first minister of culture in the burgeoning Amurite senate. His father’s charisma and leadership, as well as intelligence and mind for detail also flowed in his veins and it was generally accepted that Sâhîn Summerspring was some sort of figurehead leader for the ‘New Order’ movement. Some even called him ‘patriarch’ though this was not an official title. The second was the former crusade commander Prior Marcos Yildizoglu. Prior Yildizoglu was above all else, a military man. He had taken great pride in training and commanding the Banners of the True Faith. He was not a political man, but when the republic had sought to make him look like some sort of rebel general during ‘negotiations’ with the Calabim and had even gone so far as to strip him of his command to ‘discipline’ him, he had discovered that his sense of justice and fairness would not stand for the corruption and falsehoods that made up the senate under Roderick Bellisam. Soner’s act against the former patriarch had been a bitter pill to swallow for the strict military man, but, ultimately, he realized that the rebel priest had been right. He had joined the ‘New Order’ and brought his substantial support amongst the military with him, including the present head of the Banner of the True Faith, crusade commander Seçkin Ilahi. Other priests included Ðsmet Çelebi who had witnessed the ‘Cevedes Abbey Slaughter’ from a distance but been unable to stop it, Gürel Sihâbeddîn, a young man who had always hated the role of the senate and had sermonized on a ‘New Order’ long before Soner ever slew the ancient patriarch, Fazilet Akalay, a noble of a minor house and a new priestess who had lost her family to the demon’s inquisition. She, like Ðzzet Safavî was a wanted woman. The last priest in attendance was Semiramis Polatkan, a heavily scarred women who’s congregation had been attacked by one of the Radical’s mages, his summoned imp and fire magic. She had managed to slay the inquisitor mage and save a good portion of her congregation but it had cost her; she was now so heavily scarred that she dared not ever remove her sheesh and spoke in a broken voice.

The 13 men and women had been discussing a means to end the Radical’s tyranny and return the Amurite nation to Junil’s embrace.

Prior Marcus spoke in response to Cüneyt Kasapoglu’s proposition, “I’m not sure I feel comfortable using my men, my soldiers who only recently fought on distant battlefields for the good of the Amurite nation and the Order of Junil like this. My men are not to be used as pawns in this game.”

Cüneyt responded, always quick to interject and speak over another, “There is no more danger for the returning crusaders then there is for us, indeed for any of the laity who will be present.”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Prior Marcus questioned, “We will be in considerable danger- all of us. The difference is that we know we are placing ourselves in danger. We are making a choice to fight and possibly die. These are men and women who just returned from fighting the Calabim and their vampire blood drinking servants. The whole reason they are returning is that the division is too heavily wounded, that there were too many deaths amongst the men for it to continue to operate as a functional unit. Now, these men and women, brave heroes of a distant battlefield will be ill-served by us, their former commanders and their spiritual leaders? This doesn’t sit well with me whatsoever.”

It was Sâhîn Summerspring’s turn to speak, “And what do you think Nezakat and her puppets will do with the crusaders when they return home? Do you think she will welcome them with open arms. They openly profess their loyalty to the law-giver. Their brave stand against the injustice of the Calabim has won them the support of the common people. They are too great a threat against her regime to be allowed to live, to speak to the people and to encourage dissension against her regime. Sure, she will welcome them with a victory parade as befits returning victorious soldiers, but one by one they will die or be imprisoned. One by one they will disappear quietly into the night never to be heard from again. Are these not the bravest of the brave, men and women loyal to the nation and the order beyond their own bodies and their own sense of safety?”

Prior Marcos looked dumbfounded for a second, “Yes, of course they are. There are no braver men and women on the face of Erebus. And you are right of course… but the deception. My men, excuse me, crusade commander Seçkin Ilahi’s men are not our tools,” a moment of silence descended upon the dark little storeroom in the back of the great library. Finally Marus spoke, “I agree. We will fight and we will win and if we have to use the returning crusaders, wounded and depleted as they are, as a rallying point, I am sure they would be most honoured to serve the law-giver one more time, even if it means risking their live.”

Behlül Bozbeyli turned to Cüneyt and Efromiya, “Brother, sister, then you, as respected members of the Radical Academics have a job to do. You must make sure that the Radicals know that they will have an opportunity to strike at the heart of the underground priesthood. Ensure that their informants and spies ‘learn’ of the warm welcome the followers of the Order have planned for the returning crusaders. Ensure that they are present en-masse to strike down the priesthood and its supporters once and for all. They must see this as their opportunity to finish the job that Luwin Born-in-storm began at the Cevedes abbey. And when they do…” Behlül smiled.

Tevfik Turhril turned to the assembled priests, “Your job is to ensure that the laity, the hidden followers of Junil’s Order are assembled for the military procession. This must be a moment of pride and religious defiance. No doubt the Radicals will attempt to ‘arrest’ the remaining members of Junil’s priesthood. Our response must be direct and it must, above all else, be witnessed by the people. This battle will not only be for the survival of the Order and the destruction of the demon-servants, it will be for the establishment of a new age.” The assembled priests nodded.

The thirteen had formulated a plan. Their months of preparation and groundwork were coming to a head. It was time for a very public, very final confrontation with the Radicals and their puppet senate.