The Chosen (The Compendium of Raath, Book 1) (33 page)

Metta let out a strangled scream that filled
the room. Domma heard the girl pounding her head against the wall
in sharp, hard knocks that eventually became more sickening than
her screams.

Suddenly the sounds stopped and Domma forced
herself to look back. Metta was dead, or at least Domma hoped that
she was. Blood ran down from her left eye socket, down her
shoulder, breast, and thigh in a red river.

“What in the seven hells have you done?”
Domma asked weakly.

“We've been experimenting with new vessels,”
Potter said, rather conversationally. “Magical ones.”

“You lied to me,” said Domma. “I thought you
loved me.”

“I do love you, Domma.”

“Can you at least cover her up?”

Potter nodded and picked up Metta's robe,
putting it back on her as best he could. “I really do apologize for
that. Tristo can be most unpleasant at times, but I'm afraid you
can't always choose your associates.”

Tristo smirked.

“Well,” Potter said. “Better do the other
three.”

Domma drew quick rapid breaths, steadying
herself for the inevitable.

“O
ur organization is rather roughshod, I'm afraid,” Potter
said.

Domma was still chained to the wall, but she
and Potter were now the only living things in the room. Except
perhaps the four incubating Foglins.

“Organization,” Domma
scoffed. “Ormon
was
killed by a Foglin, wasn't he?”

“He was. It was an accident on my part. I
thought I had control of certain experiments and I didn't. You
found incredibly good information which I quickly had to distract
you from.”

“Oh, you're so clever,
Potter. You must have been surprised when I discovered the
truth.”
Keep him talking. That's my only
option.

“Nothing brings people together like a
tragedy, Domma. When you discovered what had truly happened it was
. . . a minor setback. Had to check with the authority to see what
to do about you.”

“Were you keeping tabs on all the Devotees?”
she asked.

“Yah,” Potter said. "The ones in the Temple
at least. There are more out there. Faith Rebels and the like.
Something you may not know much about. I tell you, Domma. Magic is
confusing as hell these days." He sat down on the ground, a pool of
Metta's blood just fingers away.

“Are we just going to stay here and talk?”
Domma asked. “It's pleasant and all, but I really feel quite sick
and my ankles and wrists hurt.” Her body and mind were mostly numb,
but Domma had to know as much about what Potter had done as she
could. Partially she wanted an explanation for herself, and
partially she wanted to be able to take him down if she ever got
out of this. “The Ein river branches doesn't it?”

“I have no idea,” Potter said. “I don't know
a thing about southern geography, Domma. All I did was try to
insert elements of confusion into what you discovered. Buying time.
Always buying it. Never selling it. You really are beautiful, you
know. If I didn't have my own ideals I honestly could have been
very happy with you.”

“These aren't the ideals of
God,” Domma said looking around. “He doesn't reward murderers and
members of insane cults. You're
aiding
the Foglins! Are you trying
to rain destruction on us all?”

Potter slowly shook his head. “You make one
terribly false assumption, but most people make the same one. This
precious land that we live in isn't God's world. Tell me, Domma.
How goes your communication with the so-called divine being?”

“It's fine.”

“It's not,” Potter countered. “And I know
it. Devotees like to say they can communicate with God, but they
can't. It's a waste of power. Does he spout nonsense, this God of
yours? Have you ever gotten anything useful from him? I suppose you
believe your magic is derived from him. How curious.”

Domma was silent because Potter was
right.

“We are on Gustus's world, Domma. And we
have been all along.”

Domma breathed slowly, trying to calm
herself against this blasphemy. But could she really prove Potter
wrong? Her faith said it wasn't true . . . but the situation she
was in right now – being bound in a room along with four dead
sisters – seemed almost too macabre to exist in a truly just world.
“You won't waver my faith,” she said.

“I know that,” said Potter, leaning back on
his hands, for all the world looking casual in the bloodbath he had
helped create. “The glowing symbol you have is what my superiors
are looking for. Why, I don't know. My task was merely to find the
one who had it and keep her safe.”

Well, I'll be alive at
least.

“Didn't know the symbol would be brought out
when we captured you all, but our orders were to move quickly and
hope for the best. We'd been informed that the time-line had been
accelerated, and the glowing symbol was secondary to some of our
other plans.”

“And what would those be?” Domma asked.

Potter clucked his tongue.
“No, no, no. Can't know it all, Domma. Hell,
I
don't even know it
all.”

“Can you bind me on the floor?”

“What an odd request.”

“I can't be held like this, Potter. My arms
are losing circulation.”

Potter's face took on a thoughtful look.
“Wouldn't be good if your arms fell off. I will arrange to have
your position shifted. I owe you that at least.”

He stood up and turned to go, but Domma
called after him. “Are you trying to ruin the world, Potter?”

“Me?” Potter said, his back still to Domma.
He laughed slightly. “I'm not going to ruin the world. The world's
already ruined. We rape and pillage. We murder. We fight wars that
end in disaster. You must remember the last one; it destroyed the
Tree. That was really the last straw for me.”

“Are you a Protector, Potter?”

The man said nothing, but Domma suddenly
knew it was true.

Finally Potter turned
around and talked. “I often forget how perceptive you are. I
was
a Protector,” he
said carefully. “But that title has meant little to me for many,
many years. I don't even use my powers anymore. They sicken me. The
thing about our magics, Domma, is that once you get them and once
you build up a reservoir of power . . . you can use it however you
choose. For what the world considers good, or what the world
considers ill.”

“I see you don't share the popular beliefs
of what that means.”

“Good and evil are so closely related as to
not even exist,” Potter spat. “Evil can come from good, good from
evil. The dance is maddening, Domma. The righteous sit on one side
of it, and the rest of us sit on the other, growing angry at the
whole situation. Like most people in the world – whether they'll
admit it or not – I'm simply looking for power.”

“But the Foglins are evil!”
Domma yelled. “We send brave men to fight them and keep them away
from us! And here you are bringing them into the city and . . .
and
nursing
them!”

“The Foglins are only creatures, Domma. They
can be controlled by the right people. In the right hands they are
not monsters, but tools. I know you won't understand this, but I'm
trying to make this Godless world as pleasant as possible. I'm
going to be honest with you and say that I don't understand the
full scope of our plans. I owe you that at least.”

“Stop saying that,” Domma said. “You don't
owe me anything. You're a coward and a liar Potter, and God will
judge you!” Her final words rang out in the large room.

“He won't,” Potter said quietly. “But I
appreciate the deluded sentiment.” And with that he turned, took
his torch from the sconce, and left.

Domma hung in the silent room, the only
light emanating from her forearm. She heard the tiny living sounds
of the four creatures that were moving within the skulls of her
former sisters and she wept until she had no more tears.

“Please, God,” she said through a dry
throat. “Don't let it end like this.”

K
rothair's face itched from the scraggly beard that was
growing there.

The past few weeks had seen him living in
his little abandoned attic, resorting to stealing food and fighting
for territory among the scum of Haroma. He knew he couldn’t live
like this forever, but for now it felt right. It wasn't honest and
it wasn't respectable but he didn't care.

Krothair lived how he could, the wounds from
his training with Ti'Shed slowly closing. His pinky bone never
fully knit, and he retained a few scars on his arms and legs, but
for the most part he was whole again.

Today had been a particularly rainy and
depressing day, the busy streets of Haroma turning from hard-packed
dirt to disgusting brown slush churned up by the constant feet and
hooves of the massive population. Krothair trudged through it, his
boots layered with mud, his hair plastered to his forehead, his
clothing heavy with the rain.

Night had just finished falling on the
busiest city in Hardeen Kingdom and Krothair was out for a walk to
clear his head. He was still deciding what to do with himself. He
knew he had life left in him, even at this dead end, but he
couldn't summon enough energy to do anything about it. A carriage
wheel splashed him with water. He didn't flinch.

He still wore his rusty training sword at
his waist. The weapon elevated him slightly above the average
street ruffians, most of whom used daggers for the close-combat
options they gave. Krothair's sword was garbage and he knew it, but
it was his only possession. He wouldn't give it up easily. And woe
to the urchin who tried to take it from him.

He heard laughter coming
from inside a few of the taverns and he gazed inside, not
longingly, but with interest.
There's
people living,
he thought. He saw
well-dressed men and women laughing and talking to each other,
cavorting and dancing, warm and alive.

“The Duchess's Dog,” Krothair said to
himself. “That the best they could come up with?”

Krothair continued his walk, uncaring and
cold in the rainy night.

He came to a part of town where the traffic
was much lighter and soon he was rather alone. He came out of his
stupor and looked around, itching at his face. To his right stood
another tavern, this one much smaller than The Duchess's Dog, and
he peered through the warped glass window.

It wasn't bright inside, but there was a
fire going. It had a very homy look to it with large stones instead
of bricks for a chimney, and only a few tables instead of hundreds.
It was called The Meeting Place.

And then Krothair saw him.
Ti'Shed sat at a table in the far corner, chin resting on his hands
with his eyes closed. The boy's breath caught in his throat. He
hadn't seen his master since he had left the house.
Here he is just sitting around as if nothing has
happened!

Krothair knew he had to do
something. Walking away simply wasn't an option.
Do I have anything left to say to him? Do I need
some kind of confrontation?
He wasn't
sure, but either way he opened the heavy door of The Meeting Place
and silently shuffled over to a table in the opposite corner from
Ti'Shed. He needed time to think before he acted.

A commotion to his left caused him to turn
his head.

A gruff bartender stood behind the large
wooden bar and a tavern wench stood in front of him, her back to
Krothair.

“Ya fucked up again,” the bartender said
dangerously.

The girl stood quietly, her head bowed.

“Look at me! I told ya one more time and
you'd be back on the streets selling yer tits fer coins. I hope
it's a warm night, 'cause yer nips are gonna need ta be out
plenty.”

The few other patrons
seemed to be paying no attention, and Ti'Shed hadn't lifted his
head either. Krothair started to stand up and then stopped
himself.
Shouldn't someone defend
her?
He didn't know if that was his place.
He sat down again and watched, the flickering flames casting their
red glow on the bartender and the wench.

“I barely got the order wrong,” she
said.

“A man like Lord Yellowsworth comes in here
for a drink, ya don't fuck it up. Not in the slightest.”

“Yeah, I probably shouldn't have pissed in
it,” the wench said.

The bartender slapped her then. Hard. His
arms were incredibly thick, most likely from years of carrying kegs
and drinking their contents. The wench's head whipped to the side
and Krothair saw her face for the first time.

It was Katya.

Her cheek was already reddening from where
the man had hit her, a trickle of blood running from her nose.

Krothair's heart raced. Now something was
definitely wrong.

“I've had enough o' yer strange lip,” the
bartender said, turning his open palm into a thick fist.

“I'll go,” Katya said quietly, not turning
back to face the bartender. She untied the ragged thing that had
been her apron and placed it gently on the bar.

Krothair put his hand on the hilt of his
sword, feeling the metal and leather under his fingers. His eyes
followed her as she walked across the room and disappeared behind a
wall. The bartender came out from behind the bar and began to take
orders himself. All seemed to be back to normal.

Ti'Shed had said he believed Katya had
worked some sort of lowly service job. Had he seen her in this
place and come in to catch her? Was it possible he wanted to exact
some kind of revenge on her?