Chapter 12

“Seek not the inner secrets of the Churches of Oes- for in their pursuit of the light, they oft embrace the darkness.”

-Petre Rouard, Words of Wisdom

-Early Winter, 3133, East of Midhwait

Aachem- Urumael still dared not use his true name until he was safely within the confines of the Rock of the Sun- shivered atop the rickety cart and pulled his ragged cloak tighter about his shoulders. The sky had been overcast for his entire journey through Iradar, and now, in Mittelien, it was no different. The clouds threatened snow, but as yet, none save a few scattered flakes had fallen. All the while, Aachem was frozen to the bone in the frigid air.

Though he had been traveling south the entire way, the year had lengthened from fall to winter, denying him warmth as he moved to normally warmer regions. And he had not made nearly the progress he had hoped for. The roads in Horwald, in far north Iradar, had been so muddy that he spent several days camping, waiting for the cold to freeze the mud, making the roads more easily traversed. He was now with his third caravan since he left Highbridge, if this pitiful train of three broken down wagons and a pack-mule could be called a caravan. But traveling in numbers was much preferable to traveling alone; particularly when the Istrim were searching for him.

The Istrim! The thought brought fear to the pit of his stomach as he glanced west at the high mountains in the distance.

So Close!

The Tograth, legendary seat of the Istrim Order, mysterious, remote, and impregnable, stood somewhere in the cloud-encircled heights. It was said that no man outside the Order knew of exactly where the Tograth stood. Visitors traveled to the City of Midhwait, but never actually went to the fortress itself, which was rumored to be somewhere above the city in the mountains. No man dragged chained to the Tograth lived, so no one had reported its location.

Yet rumors of the fortress abounded. Here and there someone claimed to have a brother or friend who knew someone who had escaped, or heard the tale of some traveler who knew its secrets. But the wise knew them for merely traveler’s tales- meant to impress the ladies and children. No one escaped the Tograth. No one.

Aachem turned back to the road before him, holding the reins loosely in his rag-wrapped hands. He tried to not think about the ominous presence to the west, but he felt it there, its impending will bearing down upon his shoulders like a heavy weight. It was there. He could feel it. It seemed to beckon to him- urging him to submit to the inevitable. He knew it was only a trick of his obsessive mind, but it seemed so real.

In other times, he would have gladly taken a much more westerly route to Hebronus and the Rock of the Sun, steering wide of this place. But caravans were rare in the winter, and the western routes were dangerous, running through lands where laws of far-off ineffective kings held little sway. Aachem chose his route after long thought, and unfortunately, it led him very near to the heart of the Istrim Order.

Ahead, he knew, the road would branch. Turning east would lead him to Midhwait and into more danger. Turning west would lead him away from the Istrim, but not necessarily to safety. The obvious advantage to traveling so near to the Tograth was that the Istrim priesthood, despite their viscous and expansionist nature, kept brigands and thieves at bay. Even those with no respect for law at least feared the Istrim Order. West was away from their center of power, and therefore back toward the lawlessness of remote Mittelien.

Nevertheless, that is where he intended to go. He had been followed much of his journey. That much was clear to him. He had seen two faces one too many times to be a coincidence. Two men- one pale as a ghost, with sunken eyes and bony frame, and another man, a brutish fellow with only a couple teeth in his rotting gums had crossed his path three times in his journey. He presumed they were common thugs hired by the Istrim to find him and report his whereabouts for they were far too clumsy to be Istrim themselves. He had tried desperately to give no clue as to his identity to anyone, but they followed him still. They suspected something. So he had decided it was time to put some distance between himself and the men these footpads served. He would turn west at the crossroads into the wilderness of the foothills.

Aachem drew his tattered cloak tighter about himself as the wind picked up. He tried to put the mountains out of his mind and gazed for the thousandth time at the rocky landscape to his right. He had traveled through this land only once before in his life, many years ago on his way to Iradar. Little had changed since then. There was still no sign of habitation- no villages or homes for nearly a hundred miles. The land, though not as severely undulating as the mountainous lands to the east, was far less hospitable. The open landscape had few trees or hills that might block the biting winds that swept across the desolation. The soil was so rocky that farming was nearly impossible. The scattered clumps of vegetation were so sparse and few that even the raising of livestock was difficult. A single road cut through the land, and Aachem knew that it lay a day’s journey ahead- the crossroads at Ormiel.

Aachem’s small cart rounded a slight bend in the road that skirted the edge of a large pile of boulders left many centuries before by an ancient glacier. He watched sullenly as the first cart, then the second disappeared around the bend. To the right of the road, a depression had formed over the years and formed a small pool of frozen water likely no deeper than two or three feet. But it crept upon the road, forcing Aachem to lead the mule to hug the boulder as it drew the cart past. As he slowly rounded the boulder, he was forced to rein the bedraggled mule to a stop. The carts before them had stopped and blocked the way. Aachem at first thought nothing of it- perhaps some rocks lay blocking the path, they would be on their way soon enough.

But from the first cart, which was still out of site, he heard the sound of shouting. Fear gripped him, and he rose in the seat, and reached into the cart for something- anything- to use as a weapon. His hand clasped around the handle of long piece of wood used as a pry bar to help them free the cart when it got stuck in deep mud, as it often did. Just as he gripped it, he heard them.

“There he is!” Said one voice.

“We know you, Priest!” Said another.

Aachem turned slowly to see the two faces that had stalked him for most of the journey. His heart was beating so fast that he thought it might explode in his chest. He felt his hands shaking, but tried outwardly to appear calm. He knew he was not succeeding.

“You’ll be smart to just come along quietly,” the first one said.

Aachem looked at the men who approached him. One held a wooden club. This was the toothless man who he had seen several times on the road. He was gaunt and pale, with a scraggly beard and long, thinning hair. Despite his slight build, he looked very dangerous. His eyes were thin and piercing, with a look of wild insanity. The other was a much more imposing figure. He was short, but very broad in the shoulder with heavy limbs and thick neck. He wore tattered traveler’s clothes as well, but bore a short, rusty sword. His jaw was set, and a long, red scar crossed his face from the corner of one eye, across his nose, to the opposite jaw.

The toothless man approached him, a look of smug confidence in his eyes.

“Wha-What do you want? I have no money!” Aachem said.

“No money, Priest,” the man said grinning now, “we just want you to come along with us.”

Aachem sat in the cart still, his hand gripping the haft of the wooden pole. He knew little of the arts of fighting, and nothing of weapon use. But he did not intend to go along quietly.

The toothless man reached the edge of the cart, his club held lazily at his side. Perhaps this man would go quietly? Aachem was visibly shaking now, and that fact made the two assailants confident. Their grins widened.

As soon as the toothless man took his club form his right hand to his left, and reached for Aachem’s arm to drag him from the cart, Aachem wrenched the wooden pole from under the pile of supplies in the cart and brought it down with all his strength toward the head of the toothless man.

His attacker’s eyes went wide, obviously expecting no fight from this Priest. Aachem’s blow went a bit wide of the man’s head, however, and crashed down upon his shoulder with a sickening thud. The man cried out as his shoulder sagged and he crumpled to the ground in pain, his right arm hanging limp. His partner, the stouter fellow with the scar stood frozen for a brief instant, then raised his sword and advanced on Aachem who stood now in the cart.

Aachem was no fighter, and he could tell that the scar-faced man was indeed a fighter of experience from the ay the man carried the sword. He thought for only a second before leaping from the cart, landing hard on the ground, and leaping from the road onto the frozen pool of water. He immediately lost his footing and slipped backwards, his head bouncing off the ice like a melon. He heard a sharp crack! And at firs thought he had split his head open. His vision swam, and his head was aching in sharp pain. Nevertheless, he struggled to his knees and scrambled across the ice to the far side of the pool. He looked over his shoulder as he dragged himself from the frozen surface onto the hard rocky ground.

Behind him, the second attacker rounded the cart, paying no attention to his injured comrade who still cried out in pain. He leapt from the road onto the frozen pool in pursuit of Aachem. His feet landed just where Aachem’s head had hit the ice. Aachem was a slight man, and his frame had little weight on it. But this man, though somewhat shorter, was far heavier. His feet laded squarely on the icy surface, but where Aachem’s had slipped, this man’s feet continued through the ice until he stood nearly waste deep in cold water. He fell forward with a curse, losing his grip on the sword and sending it sliding across the icy pool. He struggled to climb out of the frozen water, but as he tried to pull himself onto the ice, the surface continued to break under his weight and his curses became louder.

Aachem gathered his legs beneath him and stood. He nearly fell over from the dizziness inside his head, but caught himself. The attacker still struggled to get out of the cold water. It appeared to be only waste-deep, so there was no danger that he would drown, but he was, for the moment, hindered. Aachem looked down at the sword at the edge of the ice. Slowly, he reached down and lifted it. It was much heavier than he thought it would. A thought occurred to him. He could take the sword, walk carefully across the ice, and kill the man as he struggled in the water.

He paused a moment, considering this, but only a moment. Fear got the best of him and he turned away. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, flinging the sword away as he ran. He ran for what seemed an hour before he ever paused. At last, he felt he could run no more and he stopped in a shallow depression that was surrounded by large rocks. He tried to catch his breath, and crept to the edge of the depression, and peered back the way he had come.

The many strewn boulder and rocks cut off his view, so the road and cart were well out of his sight. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was, but he figured that he had run nearly due west. He listened for sounds of pursuit, but heard nothing. He was alone. He looked around himself to take stock of his situation.

The sun was fading quickly, and he had no blankets or wood for a fire. A night exposed to this cold with no shelter would mean death for any soul unlucky enough to be out in it. Aachem, breathing hard and still quite afraid. There was no wood here for a fire. He did not even stop to consider that his tinder was in the cart behind him. He could not have made a fire if he had all the wood in the world.

He knew two things: He would die this night if he found no shelter, and the road must be somewhere to his left, several hours by cart on roads, much longer on foot on this rough ground. Despite his situation, it was nearly half an hour before Aachem could bring himself to set out. He still feared pursuit from the two brigands, or at least the uninjured one once he freed himself from the ice.

At last, he summoned the courage to scramble over the cold stones. The sun hung low in the sky before him. He turned, putting the sun to his right, and set off in search of the road. Walking was very difficult. The ground was covered with stones of all sizes, some as large as a house, others-the most difficult ones- were just large enough for a man to turn his ankle on if he stepped on it in the dark. By the time the sun had sunk below the horizon, Aachem was bruised and weary from falling over them. His ankles were sore, and his hands were cut from catching himself when his ankles turned. The temperature dropped, and the darkness enveloped him. In no time, his teeth were chattering and his hands and feet were numb. The moon gave no light this night, as it was covered by the low-lying clouds that blanketed the sky. He fell now with nearly every step- unable to see the ground before him. It seemed he stumbled along for hours upon hours in the darkness, now no longer sure if he even held to his course. His mind wandered back to his youth in Hebronus as it often did- the memories helped shut away the pain and cold.

At last, he was aware that he was no longer stumbling over rocks, and he was laying upon his stomach on the cold ground. He could not feel his arms or legs for the cold, and barely noticed the sharp rocks pressing into his abdomen and face. He didn’t even wake when he was lifted from the ground not thirty feet from the road and loaded into a wagon beneath heavy blankets. He never stirred from his unconsciousness when he was placed, blankets and all, by a small warm fire. He simply slept.

***

When he awoke, his thoughts took him back to one of the many inns he had visited in the north. He thought for a moment that he was back there, in Horwald of northern Iradar, resting beneath the warm covers of a soft bed. But he felt the pain in his limbs and face form the many cuts and bruises. The tips of his fingers were very painful, the skin of his face burned from frostbite.

He struggled to open his eyes. Instead of the common room of an inn, he saw the interior of a small house- a hut was perhaps a better description. The walls were made of many small stones with the gaps filled in with dark brown mud. The roof was thatch- made obviously from the harsh reeds that grew about the area in scattered clumps. In the center, a small fire smoldered in a small bowl dug into the earth. A single door, covered with the skin of some animal blocked out pale sunlight that streamed in around the edges and through some of the many cracks in the stone walls of the house.

Aachem lay on a pile of furs, with more covering him. They stank from years of use, but the warmth they provided was such a comfort that he cared little about the stench. Tattered and dirty clothes hung above the fire from a long leather cord. He had not noticed that he was naked until he realized the clothes were his.

He sat beneath his covers, noticing more pain in his ribs and side. The sudden movement allowed a rush of icy air beneath the furs and brought goose bumps to his skin. The skin of his fingers was cracking and red, obviously affected by the cold. But whose hut was he in? Who had brought him here?

He rose shakily to his feet, ignoring the protest from his cracked soles. After dressing, he moved to the skin that covered the opening to the hut, and drew back a corner. Outside, it was mid-day, but the overcast sky still blocked most of the sunlight. The opening looked out on a small flat space between many larger rocks. Here and there in the small space were various tools, mostly broken and rusted, and scraps of wood obviously pillaged from the scraps left on the road. A broken horseshoe here, a scrap of leather reins there- whoever lived in this hut must have collected everything they could find on the road for years to gather so much junk. Still, he supposed, there was nowhere else for a person to find such items in this desolation unless they traveled to Ormien. Existence in this region must be a precarious thing.

There was no sign of the owner of the hut. There were no animals outside and no sound of anyone working nearby. Aachem had two choices again; to leave this place now, or to await the return of the hut’s owner. He was not overly worried about the owner himself- whoever had brought him here left him unguarded with access to his clothes. If they meant to abduct him, he surmised, they would have bound his hands and feet. Yet he owed whoever this person was a great debt for bringing him here. He was no fool, and knew that he would have died without the warm furs and the fire. Nevertheless, his decision was made for him when a man scrambled around one of the larger boulders and made his way to the hut. Aachem stepped outside the hut to greet the person, his heart racing again in apprehension. He tried to breath easier, to avoid showing fear, but his quick breaths in the frigid air betrayed him.

But this was not one of the two brigands who approached. It was a bone-thin man no older than 30 dressed in rags and skins more worn than any garment Aachem had ever seen. The man’s dark hair was long and poorly kept, and his brown beard was so tangled and dirty, Aachem was sure it had simply never been trimmed. He carried a long wooden pole that had a piece of sharp metal tied on one end to make a makeshift spear, and at he had what appeared to be two small dead animals slung over his left shoulder.

When he saw Aachem, he paused, raising his spear. But after a moment, he seemed to relax and lowered his weapon. He smiled, his mouth full of gaps and yellow, rotted teeth. He walked cheerfully straight up to Aachem and spoke in a language that Aachem recognized.

Lienish he thought. Very guttural.

Aachem’s many years in study and labor at Hebronus had been productive ones- he spoke several languages, and read three. Lienish was a very common tongue of Middle Aridisia, and one he was familiar with. He greeted the man in the same tongue.

“You brought me here?” he asked, trying to recall the grammar.

“Aye,” the man responded, “I did that. You were very close to death, or so thought I.”

“I thank you,” Aachem responded, “I owe you much.”

“The tribe cares for the lost,” the man responded almost mechanically.

Aachem recognized the saying as a common one among the Fiennish peoples- from the scattered tribes of nomadic people from the far eastern wind-swept plains of Mittelien. He was far from his ancestral homeland. Rarer still was to see him alone- Fiens were deeply committed to the tribe, and lived a very communal lifestyle.

“And where is your tribe?” Aachem asked.

The man paused for a moment as if confused, then motioned eastward.

“You are far from your tribe,” Aachem said.

The man paused again, then finally said: “Menchen is a tribe, a tribe is his. The tribe has spoken.”

Aachem understood the man. Though the Fiens were subjects of the King of Mittelien, they were more loyal to their tribal chiefs. The title of Chieftain was hereditary among the Fiens, from father to eldest son. When a second son was born to a Chieftain, he was sent out from the tribe to the wilderness to ‘start a new tribe.’ Generally, leaving the tribe meant death. Menchen, as the man was apparently named, was one of the cast-offs.

“Well, Menchen, I am Aachem,” he said.

Menchen looked confused at first, but finally understood that Aachem was introducing himself. Apparently, Aachem’s grammar was not as polished as he had thought. When he finally understood, his countenance brightened and he smiled his disgusting smile once more.

“Aachem!” he said, slapping Aachem on the shoulder. “Mt home welcome’s you!”

He pushed past Aachem and immediately stepped through the door into his hut. Aachem shrugged, and followed.

Inside, Menchen tossed his two kills onto a flat rock near the fire. Aachem could tell they were large rodent-like creatures. Probably some sort of rat. Menchen began to skin the animals, carving every scrap of meat from their bones. He skewered the pieces of bloody meat on a stick that lay near the fire and placed them over the flames to cook. He took a second stick and held it out to Aachem, who looked sidelong at the remaining meat on the stone. Menchen looked at him.

“Eat,” he said.

Aachem took the stick reluctantly, not relishing the thought of eating the flesh from the dirty little rats. But he was hungry, and he did not wish to offend his host. He speared several pieces of the flesh and placed it over the fire.

Menchen sat across the fire from him watching him try to clean the blood from his fingers. He seemed amused. Looking at the man, it was apparent that hygiene was not a focal point of the Fiennish culture.

“Menchen,” he asked at last, “Do you know where the nearest city is?”

“Aye, Menchen knows,” Menchen responded, adding nothing else but a blank stare.

Aachem waited for elaboration, but seeing none forthcoming, he inquired further.

“Which way is it, and how far?” he asked.

Menchen motioned over his shoulder with his thumb. “Half day.”

Aachem thought for a second. A half-day’s journey could only be to Midhwait, and he had no desire to go to the town so close to the Tograth.

“Midhwait? Is there another city? A town? Anything?”

“Aye,” said Menchen.

Again, Aachem waited for an elaboration. There was nothing. Menchen just watched the meat cooking over the tiny fire.

“What other place? A village?” he asked, exasperated.

Menchen looked at him then.

“No,” he said very matter-of-factly, “No city. Big castle in mountains. Istrim castle.”

Aachem nearly feel into the fire. No one knew where the Tograth lay- no one knew its location but the Istrim.

“The Tograth?” he asked. “You know where to find it?”

“Aye. Menchen saw it many seasons ago,” he said. “It is high in mountains. Difficult climb, it is.”

In any other circumstance, Aachem would have been teeming with excitement. The reward he would receive for bringing the exact location of the Tograth to the High Prelate of his own order was…beyond imagination. Yet Aachem knew that he was not the man to act on this information. He was no hero, only a messenger of sorts- a man who delivered coded information from one spy for his church to another. But the Tograth’s exact location had remained shrouded in secrecy for generations. Those who searched for it were either unsuccessful, or were not heard from again. In some regions, it had become a colloquial saying to claim of a man who was lost on a journey that he “Sought the Tograth.” Still, the information was absolutely useless without confirmation from someone he could trust. As things stood, he truly only trusted himself.

Yet still, the inherent danger in meddling in the secret affairs of the Istrim gave him pause. Beyond the basic dangers associated with traveling high in the mountains, there was the danger of capture. There would be no way to lie himself out of torture. The Istrim were not foolish enough to believe that a man of his darker complexion would be anything but a Servant of the Sun, a member of their rival order who was not allowed, by the ancient and revered treaty of Trecht to even set foot in Istrim lands.

But with each doubt, his mind always came back to the inevitable truth that without this information, his return to the Rock of the Sun in Hebronus would be a failure. His mission, to relay news of possible Istrim activities in the north of Iradar, had yielded no more than rumors and one dead Istrim priest. This new would allow him to return triumphant- heroic even. He would be amongst the most honored men in all the priesthood…if the news he brought was confirmed, and the location exact.

His mind set, he drew a deep breath.

“Will you take me there?”