Immaculate
unerring
- Joined
- Jan 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,623
This is the last part of the multi-chapter story that explains the change in amurite government and only the epilogue remains (but that will wait until after the update). I know few people read these walls of text but i felt i wanted to finish what i started. I promise never to write such a lengthly and mutli-part story ever again.
The Coup:
Turn 17: A Long Shadow
Part Five: Victor’s Parade
Spoiler :
The witch Nezakat Vedat wasn’t sure if the tingling in her hands and sense of urgency in her gut were anticipation at the blood she would soon be spilling or the latent energies she had charged herself with throughout the night. Today was finally the day; her chance to put an end to the Order and their hidden churches and forbidden ceremonies. All night she had been in communion with those who dwelt behind the veil and their various demonic servants; she had sacrificed both her own blood and that of innocents. Her hands and forearms where a patchwork of crisscrossing wounds- testament to the blood she had shed, the pain she had endured to prove her dedication. The piles of bodies in her manor-house courtyard attested to the innocents’ blood she had spilled and the mana she had been infused with. Her hands positively itched with energy. Yes, Nezakat thought, today would be a day of great reckoning, a purge of the thorn that too long had pricked her side. She would finish the job that Luwin Born-in-Storm had begun at the Cevedes abbey.
The Radicals had learnt, through their various spies and informants that the return of the surviving crusaders, those too wounded to continue active service to Junil in the field against the Calabim, those victims of the Calabim ‘blood rage’, would be met by the faithful from throughout the realm. Priests and monks would all be present to show their support to the victorious warriors, and no doubt to warn the returning crusaders of the changes Nezakat and her servants had wrought. The assembly of so many of the remaining priests and monks, the most faithful of the laity was a temptation too great for the Radicals to ignore. Finally they could put an end to the whispered resistance, to the secret meetings of Junil’s most faithful.
Waiting for the ship which would bring the crusaders from Acaia, Nezakat surveyed the crowd. She was happy to spot her more obvious military support, those men and women who had sworn allegiance to her new regime, who now served as her police and strongmen. They were her ‘brutes’ and had been ensorcelled with absolute loyalty and mindless bravery. They would serve the same function that Luwin Born-in-Storm’s mundane troops had served at the Cevedes abbey; they would fight and die so that Nezakat’s mages could commit the real slaughter. Nezakat was also pleased to see her less obvious support amongst the crown. These were men and women, some dressed in the new uniforms of the republic’s civil servants and others dressed in civilian sheeshes so as to better blend into the crowd, who were accomplished mages, conjurers and sorcerers from the ranks of the Radical Academics. She could see commander Luwin Born-in-Storm and senator Korkud Kusçu amongst the crowd, competent mages in their own right and each in command of an additional half dozen loyal mages. She knew that there were much more amongst the crowd as well, hidden behind the faceless sheeshes awaiting her command.
* * *
Daddy was coming home today. Little Nayla was so excited she could hardly stand still. The boat! The boat was here! She waved at the distant speck on the horizon, sure that her father could see her from afar. The five-year old strained at her mother’s hand, wanting to rush the wharves with the other families who awaited their loved one’s return from distant war, but her mother’s grip was tight.
Mother spoke in a soft but authoritive tone, “Nayla, you understand that daddy may not be the same man you remember. Daddy is returning today because he is wounded. If he was not wounded he would still be fighting those blood-drinking vampire spawn in Acaia- Junil curse them. You have to be ready for a… difference.” She spoke to her daughter but the words could just as easily been for her. Since she had received the letter 24 days ago all sorts of thoughts had gone through her head. Her bearded husband’s army had been victorious. Acaia had been liberated from the oppressive tyranny of the vampires. The people had welcomed their liberators with wreathes and flowers. At least the letter said so. She was too wise to not suspect that the military may have exaggerated the jubilation of the liberated Acaians. But the battle had been costly. The vampire nobles had forced their troops to drink a poison potion made from their own blood and that potion had made the enemy troops into mindless fighting dervishes. Losses had been heavy; many crusaders had bravely gone to meet Junil in heaven. Many more had been seriously hurt, their wounds too severe for the blessings of the crusader medics. These were the ones that were returning home today. Her husband, Nayla’s father was amongst them. She didn’t know what to expect. Only the most wounded were returning, so obviously he had been hurt, but how? What could she expect? Amputation? Worse- a head wound? She shuddered at the thought, and under her sheesh so that the prying eyes of the republic’s informants could not see, she made the sign of Junil to ward off bad luck. Around her she could see the tears and worry in other wives’ eyes. Many of the wives wore black bands of grief, signs of their recent widowhood. They were here to support their late husband’s regiment and the other wives. But for their families it was too late; the letters home had obviously said something quite different.
As the ship approached the press of bodies carried her towards the wharves. Everywhere there was a crushing wave of cheerful, flag-waving, hymn-chanting Amurites eager to greet husbands, brothers, sons and fathers. Tears of relief and apprehension, of joy and sadness mingled in the crowd. Everywhere… except around the demons. At the edge of the crowd, one on each side, stood a towering mass of barely restrained violence, six-armed beast standing 12’ tall and wielding 9-headed scourge in one hand and a towering iron scimitar in another. They were horned demons known as ‘balor’ and acted as the eyes, police, judges, and executioners of the new senate’s corrupted laws. Around them the pressing mass of people was completely absent. None wanted to come into range of these creature’s reach for fear of their sudden violent tempers.
* * *
Sâhîn Summerspring knew he was sacrificing his life, knew that soon he too, like the brave Soner Çölasan would be a martyr for Junil’s Order. At one level he was afraid. He knew that the witch Nezakat would never allow him to finish his blessing, that he would be cut down by a whispered spell before he even knew where his enemies where, but he also knew that the reign of Nezakat and her puppet senate led by Rodrick Bellisam could not be allowed to last. Here was the chance to fix things, to return the Amurite government to the Amurite people, to expel the demons and their servants once and for all. At some level he was proud of the sacrifice he was making; he knew that his name would be whispered with the same sense of awe and respect that people whispered Soner Çölasan, the rebel priest’s name, with. He would be a part of Amurite history. Forever. And when he died, he would see his lord and serve him forever in heaven. Yes… he was ready.
The returning crusaders had disembarked from the returning transport ships, had assembled in the courtyard, many carried on stretchers, many other supported by their comrades and crutches. The mass of bodies all around them was awash with emotion, relief and joy most of all. Sâhîn could hear the whispered and hurried prayers of the faithful uttered quietly and from concealment. The moment was ready. He nodded to Mihriban Recep, one of the ‘White Robes of Junil’. Mihriban’s voice and hands were steady; she spoke the spell with confidence and without fear and suddenly Sâhîn was floating 30’ above the crowd; his voice was amplified to carry throughout all of Cevedes.
Sâhîn Summerspring knew he would be struck down at any moment; he could only hope that his sacrifice would be a rallying cry for all the faithful. He spoke, knowing that his enemies were preparing spells to fell him at any moment, “Brothers and sisters of the Amurite nation, loyal children of the gods, today, our brave brothers have returned and I would like to offer a simple prayer of thanks for their return and for their sacrifice in your name, O’ great Junil.”
All around him the crowd was staring at this floating speaker who dared to defy the republic and its corrupt senate so openly. There was panic and wonder and pride in their eyes. Sâhîn continued, even as the two Balor quickly strode through the crowd towards him and whispered spells filled the aether all about the crowd, “Junil bless these men, your servants who have fought, have bled and have died for you. Bless the men and women…”
Sâhîn Summerspring had gotten further into his blessing then he had thought but the Radicals could not allow this breach of their laws, this challenge to their authority to continue. Suddenly the witch Nezakat Vedat herself was aloft, her entire dark robes and frail old-woman body wreathed in purple, green and black tendrils and clouds of energy. Her voice crackled with arcane energy and fury, “Sâhîn Summerspring, you are a wretched traitor and by the authority of the Amurite senate, I condemn you to death.” Her words were not yet finished that she raised a hand and with a bony, near skeletal finger, pointed at the selfless priest. There was no bolt of light, no crackling of arcane energy, not even a whisper. But suddenly, Sâhîn face exploded into blood. Blood streamed from his mouth, his nose, his ears and even his eyes. His skin suddenly turned stark white and he plummeted to the ground, landing gracelessly at the feat of his ally Mihriban Recep.
The response was immediate. All throughout the crowd there were gasps. The corrupted senate had gone too far. Nezakat, firstly, was not a senator, and although she was a noble and the leading member of the Radical academics, she was not a representative of the republic. Secondly, she was known to consort with demons; she had fought in the Amurite civil wars on the side of the Caswellan. She commanded the Balor who patrolled the streets. And lastly, she had just struck down one of the most beloved figures of modern Amurite times. Sâhîn Summerspring was not only the beloved son of Marcel Summerspring, winner of Somnium tournaments and the first minister of culture, he was the unofficial head of the outlawed Order of Junil. Suddenly the air was filled with stones and small thrown objects as the masses finally released months and months of pent-up frustration and anger. The stones sailed towards the witch but bounced harmlessly off some sort of invisible shield. Throughout the crowd priests and monks revealed themselves, agitating the population and calling for an end to the tyrannical regime. Hoods were cast aside, disguises and concealing garments were thrown away and suddenly the crowd was full of the servants of Junil. Priests and monks, stood side by side with the laity and the crowd began to chant, “Kill her! Destroy the corruption! Redeem the martyrs!” Obviously they had been prepared for this.
* * *
Nezakat Vedat smiled. The foolish priests had revealed themselves. There were many and they had the support of the people, but they were all here, in plain sight, ready to be eradicated once and for all. It would be a slaughter unlike any since her service to Thomas the Caswellan.
She called to her supporters, “Arrest them all. Kill any who resist. Kill any priest or monk. Kill any crusader who raises a hand against the senate.” She knew that officially, these men and women were not hers to command, but was not the head of the senate her apprentice and she his master? Was it not just a matter of formality before she would be crowned Caswellan and master of all the Amurite people?
Rodrick Bellisam floated up from the crowd, his frame draped in thick black velvet robes. He nodded to the police and bowed to his mistress, “As you will my master.” At this point there was no longer any question of who was truly in charge of the Radicals or the senate.
Immediately the senate’s police set about with their broad shortswords, stabbing and hacking at the assembled masses, wounding or killing many unarmed civilians. The mages filled the aether with their whispered spells, summoning the air, earth and mind mana of the Amurites and some calling upon other sources of mana, sources unavailable through training at the academies, death, entropy and chaos mana. Demonic stirges, small demonic flying creatures stinking of sulphur and bearing four heavily clawed arms beat the air with their four wings, swooping and scratching at the priests and monks. Creatures of electricity and air, elemental sprites were summoned to electrify and terrorize Junil’s faithful. The mind goblins made a return, dropping many a priest without apparent reason as they invisibly ravaged the conscious minds of the mass of the faithful. Lightning flew from mage’s fingers and filled the air with the smell of ozone and something much much worse, the charred smell of human flesh as the mages downed entire wings of the crowd with a single spell. Dancing scimitars hew through the crowd without anyone apparently wielding them. Orangish brown gasses were spilling out of Turusan Erkan hands as he floated above the crowd, the masses below him grasping at their throats and gasping desperately at the noxious vapours. Everywhere Nezakat looked she saw the dark robes of her followers and servants as they slew their hated enemies.
Nezakat Vedat smiled at the massacre as it unfurled.
* * *
Nayla’s father couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. He had seen the horrors of battle with the Calabim, he had witnessed the terrible fury of a Hippus cavalry charge at close range. He had even seen the look of complete abandon and battle-rage in the eyes of the Calabim forces that had drank the vampire’s poison potions. But this, this carnage was something he had never witnessed. All around him the assembled faithful, the entirety of Junil’s priesthood that remained, that, from what he was able to gather, hadn’t been massacred or hunted down and slain like rabbits in a hole, was being massacred on a grandiose scale. It was like something out of the stories the old generation used to tell of the civil wars. Everywhere he looked there were demons and their servants. The demons threw the faithful about like dolls, chewed them and… violated them. The demon’s servants, men and women dressed in dark velvet robes, members of the corrupted senate and the ‘Radicals’ were laying waste to his friends and neighbours. Nayla’s father strained against the stretcher that bore him and was rewarded with a sharp pain in his hip, a reminder of the Calabim blade who’s tip still lay in his pelvic bone and which had begun to rot his flesh so that he smelled like putrid meat. If only, if only he could stand, don his armour and shield, wield his spear, he would…
Suddenly a voice spoke in his ear and a hand rested on his shoulder. He looked up to see a young man, the marks of acne still staining his youthful face. He was dressed as a priest of Junil’s order and spoke softly, “Rise, soldier of Junil and serve your master once more.” There was warm sensation throughout his body and suddenly the pain in his hip was gone. A shimmer formed around his body, a warm sort of ‘reassurance’. The shimmer got stronger and stronger and finally coalesced into shimmering silver amour. On his left arm the shimmer formed a shield and in his right, the shiver formed a spear. Suddenly Nayla’s father was whole again, whole and armed with amour and weapons of pure faith. He looked for the priest and saw him standing over another of the wounded crusaders, apparently repeating the same prayer for that crusader too was suddenly covered in a silvery shimmer a smile stretching across his face as he rose from his litter.
Nayla’s father needed no more prompting. “For Junil,” he cried and charged the nearest mage, his spear piercing the dark robed man’s throat as the shimmering magical weapon easily slipped through the man’s magical protections. Already Nayla’s father was looking for another target.
Looking around him he saw that many crusaders had been healed, that they, and the laity, were wielding shimmering weapons made purely of faith and obedience. He saw priests calling down pillars of fire upon the demons and sending them back to the hells they spawned from. Looking up he saw seven wizards robed in purest white and adorned with both magical glyphs and shining symbols of their faith in Junil doing battle with the dark-robed ‘Radicals’.
One was shouting over the crowd and through the battle, his voice amplified by some spell.
* * *
“We are the ‘White Robes of Junil’, mages sworn to uphold the faithful and to stop your tyranny. For too long we have seen you abandon morality, abandon faith in the law-giver, abandon the Amurite people so that you could claim power and rule. No longer! Today you perish and may Junil have mercy upon your soul for we will not.” This was the cry of Cüneyt Kasapoglu has he flew above the crowd, his voice amplified by Mihriban Recep’s air magic.
Below the white robes the battle waged on. The priests and the laity were locked in a bitter struggle with the demons, the senate’s ensorcelled soldiers and the dark robes of the Radicals. All around, flying through the air were the elite of the Radical’s mages and the seven members of ‘The Council of Seven’, those mages who had sworn on their lives and upon Junil’s name to end Nezakat Vedat’s coup and her regime. Lightning and flying metal scimitars, blasts of mental energy and untold magicks crisscrossed through the air. Many a mage fell to their deaths that day and the battle was nearly even except that the ‘White Robes of Junil’ had the support of the priesthood and when they fell, they were healed and rose again. Even Sâhîn Summerspring rose again after being touched by Junil’s healing hand and a friendly prayer.
So although the Radicals commanded horrific magicks, the faithful commanded prayers and magicks of their own and they could counter the Radicals damage.
The battle raged on throughout the course of the day and into the early night and the faithful slowly took the upper hand as they healed their wounded in a battle of prolonged attrition. One by one the black robes fell to the courtyard’s stone surface and were mobbed by the angry mass of the faithful. Unlike the white-robed mages, they did not rise again. The demons and summons disappeared, often with fiery and destructive consequences. All throughout the courtyard a sort of quiet broken by sobbing and groans descended upon the wounded and the dead. Everywhere except for high above the courtyard where two black-robed Radicals fought for their lives against six of the seven leading members of the ‘White Robes of Junil’.
Rodrick Bellisam stood before his master Nezakat Vedat, both protected by a shining semi-transparent globe of bronze magick. Around them and above them floated the six of the seven leading ‘White Robes of Junil’: confident and conniving Cüneyt Kasapoglu, the wizened but determined Behlül Bozbeyli, alarmist Ðzzet Safavî who once fled from Nezakat’s manor, the beautiful widow Efromiya Yilmaz who still prayed for her husband every day, the youngest, Mihriban Recep who was, like Behlül once Tevfik’s apprentice, and the energetic matron Yurdagül Jirecek . Their leader, Tevfik Turhril, was nowhere to be seen. He had fallen earlier, a victim to a blast of mental energy from Nezakat herself. The priests had been unable to make him whole again.
Nezakat appeared desperate and tired. Her old frame had channelled much magical energy this day, much more then she had anticipated and the battle had gone very badly. The priests and the enemy mages had had been organized, well led, well supplied. She had realized very early that the confrontation had been a trap but she could not well have fled for to do so would have spelled the end of her regime and her dreams of conquest. Now those dreams were over and she had only one desire: to make the enemy pay. She had used the last of her stored magics, the last mental bolt, the last summoning, the last lick of fire; she had only one recourse. She would turn to her ‘ally’, the ‘beast of the brass tower’, a greater demon, a great commander and a prince amongst the hordes of hell, the creature to whom she had sacrificed many souls. A beast with whom she had signed a contract in her own blood. She spoke only three words and suddenly the air once again shimmered with magical energy. Like a mirage over hot sands the air seemed to wave and ‘glisten’. A shape took form, a distant landscape of ash and black sands, of rivers of fire and of a lone brass tower. A creature flew from that distant landscape approaching the 8 mages as they flew above the courtyard. It approached them but did come from anywhere around them. He closed a distance that existed only in the ‘mirage’ and very quickly the creature, a bare-chested man wearing a long skirt of orange silk with skin of molten brass and eyes of smoking embers, a man with a blade made from a slice of the night sky coalesced before the floating exhausted wizards.
“You have summoned me and that can only mean one thing; you will pay me my soul debt,” the demonic prince with the flaming eyes spoke to Nezakat with a voice like the depths of a deep and forgotten cave- neither hurried or impatient, a force of unreckonable power and age. Rodrick Bellisam shook with fear but the remaining seven mages resolved themselves and though they were afraid, controlled their fear and stood firm.
Exhausted but still proud, the witch motioned to the 6 mages who called themselves ‘the White Robes of Junil’, “Here is your payment dark prince. Take their lives and take their souls. Save your servant from destruction so that I can serve you further.” Now Nezakat felt no exhaustion, no pain. Her aged frame was once again filled with confidence and pride and the assurance that she would prevail.
The crowd below gasped as the prince from hell moved with a speed and precision that they could not comprehend. One second he was speaking to the witch, and the next his sword, a slice of darkness embedded with floating stars was descending upon old Behlül Bozbeyli. There was a resounding clash, the crashing sound of metal on metal and the demon’s blade was parried in mid strike. The air shimmered again and a second otherworldly figure coalesced into view. This figure too had eyes of shimmering embers but whereas the demon prince had skin of brass and a blade of darkness, this figure, a female form clad in long rose-tinted robes, had skin of marble and a blade of mother-of-pearl. The two figures stood facing each other, their swords crossed and the force of their opposing strength causing their frames to shake and the air around them to shake and ripple. Red and orange sparks flew from the clash of their crossed swords and the crowd and the flying mages retreated before the force of the two godly servants’ clash.
The demon prince retreated first, lifted his sword and pointed, with a sweeping gesture to the 6 flying mages who called themselves the ‘White Robes of Junil’, “These souls are promised to me. They are my due.”
Again the brass-skinned demons charged the mages, this time directing his attack at the beautiful widow Efromiya Yilmaz. Again his attack was parried and a shower of unearthly sparks showered upon the courtyards steps below, forever marking the stones with their otherworldly energy. Both figures shook with the force of their opposing strength. The marble-skinned female form spoke resolutely, “These souls are dedicated to Junil and you may not have them.” From the courtyard the crowd cheered and prayed.
Again and again the two figures clashed as the black blade of night sought again and again to claim one of the ‘White Robes of Junil’ but again and again the night blade was reposted but the angelic figure’s own strange sword. Frustrated, the demon prince turned on his servant, “Weak old witch, you have promised what you cannot deliver. I shall take a soul of a great mortal today, a leader of men, even if it must be yours.”
Trembling, old Nezakat pointed with a long wrinkled finger at the cowering Roderick Bellisam. The brass-skinned demon looked to the marble-skinned angel. The angel nodded and suddenly the demon-princes night blade had struck the first minister of the corrupted senate through the chest. His body slumped and seemed to dissolve, absorbed by the blade made from a slice of the night sky. Within moments there was nothing left of the corrupted senator. The demon took hold of his servant’s hand and again the air seemed to shimmer. The demon and the witch were again shrouded in the waves and ripples of a mirage and quickly faded from sight.
The angelic figure too shimmered and faded away, offering a quick smile to the figures clad in the white robes and the crowds below before completely disappearing.
All around there was blood and bodies, but the forces of Junil had won the day. A great cry went up and prayers of thanks and undying obedience were offered to the law-giver and his servants, the 'White Robes of Junil' who by chanelling Junil's strength, had brought low the corrupt senate, the reign of demons and had redeemed the pride and the faith of the Amurite people.
A new day had risen. The Amurites would be led by mages, a long tradition held sacred by many, but these mages would be loyal to Junil and the Order, a new tradition that reflected the faith and values that the Amurite people held and that was sacred to them. Long live the 'Council of Seven' leaders of the 'White Robes of Junil', liberators and protectors of Junil's chosen people.
I bet his memoirs must be quite a nice read 
