Part 7: Army of Csytyr
Michael could not find a comfortable spot to sit. The room that he, Dabiri, the goddess, and all the other clerics had been placed in was lavishly decorated and resplendantly rich, almost in complete opposition of the abject poverty outside of the city walls. The thought bothered Michael. He didn't like it here one bit. He hadn't liked it the last time that he was here either. Lacking a place to seat himself, Michael took up pacing. The room was spacious enough to make this take quite some time, and it also allowed him to think.
Dabiri seemed calm enough where he was. After the guard had let them in, one of the advisors to the local Lord had rushed to see Dabiri and find out what was wrong. Dabiri boldly declared that Thavirat's men had attacked Michael's garrison, and then Dabiri's temple. Soon, he warned with as much drama as he could muster, the massive army would track them to this city . Dabiri then politely requested to speak with the Lord of Csytyr. The look on the advisor's face was priceless, and it was all that Michael could do to avoid laughing. He knew the seriousness of the situation, but he couldn't help himself. They had been shown to this room. Michael had managed to repress his laughter until the advisor left, and then quietly expressed his humor to himself so that none of the other clerics would ask questions.
The rest of the clerics were sitting with each other, talking in hushed tones about the attack on the temple. There had been little other conversation- it was the single most significant event that they had ever known. Michael had talked with them at first, but their constant barrage of questions had tired him after a short while. All they wanted to know was 'what is it like to be the chosen of the goddess?'. He had tried to explain that he wasn't chosen. Sure, he would protect the goddess. Sure, she was the goddess that he and all of the other doomed soldiers at Ethanac believed in. Sure, the clerics had used her to enchant his sword. And yes, if one believed the cleric-in-training Eve, she had spoken to him. That didn't make him the "Chosen of the goddess".
Did it?
Before Michael could ask himself any more questions, the door opened quietly and Lord Geneva of Csytyr stepped in, ringed by his advisor and a few palace guards, who moved to opposite sides of the room so as not to be in the way. Since Michael was the only one standing, Geneva approached him first.
"Welcome, welcome!" Geneva was shouting grandly. "All are welcome to Csytyr!" He shook Michael's hand violently. "I am supposing that you are the gallant knight Michael Morhaime- am I correct?"
Michael had to restrain himself from throttling the man. Geneva's over-effusive and obviously fake mannerisms had instantly irritated him. He managed not to grind his teeth while replying "Yes, I am."
"Excellent, excellent!" Geneva said, turning toward Dabiri. "And this is the courageous Father Dabiri, who rescued our dear goddess from those heathens." Dabiri nodded, apparently having a great deal more self-control than Geneva. Dabiri spoke up and introduced each of the clerics who, to their credit, all looked pleased to meet the man. Geneva moved back toward Michael and then past him, toward where the goddess had been placed. Michael moved with him, his hand wavering near his sword. He didn't trust Geneva, and if he so much as made a threatening gesture in the goddess' direction, Michael would make sure that he didn't repeat the mistake. Geneva closed to within a foot of the canopy bed that the goddess had been placed on and stayed there, bowing reverently. Michael didn't take his eyes off the man, not even to glance at the goddess. Geneva mumbled under his breath and Michael tensed, expecting some sort of magic spell. It was a moment before he recognized what it was- Geneva was praying to the goddess! The absurdity of it nearly made him laugh again, and again he managed to refrain from doing so. Presently, Geneva turned to Dabiri.
"Dabiri, my friend. We of Csytyr have always been firm believers of the goddess, and followers of your faith. It distresses us greatly to hear of the attack." Geneva shook his head with mock sadness. Briefly, Michael wondered if the rest of the group was picking up on the man's falsity. He would have to speak with Dabiri the next time officials weren't around. Geneva, meanwhile, continued his expansive speech. "I wish you to know, that this horrendous action by those heretics shall not go unpunished! I pledge to you, that our army shall stand against Thavirat, and the ground shall be soaked with the impure blood of his armies!"
"Good." Michael said. He had to say something, and he figured that blind assent would be the most polite way to go. It was probably a more viable solution than punching the lying bastard in the face anyway. "But what of the people we saw outside?"
Geneva sighed. "It is a shame. They are our civilians, you see. There is not enough room in the city to hold everyone. I suppose that everyone will have to be evacuated." Geneva shook his head slowly. "Sad. They will have to go to Eltai unaccompanied. One can only hope that theives or brigands do not sight them as targets. You see, I can spare none of my fighters, for they all must be used against the hounds of Thavirat."
Dabiri spoke up. "Lord Geneva, the plight of your citizens is indeed sad. We, too, are going to Eltai. Would it not be possible for us to escort them?"
Michael had to restrain himself from yelling at Dabiri. Couldn't he see that Geneva was setting him up? There was no telling how far behind schedule the civilians would put them. Besides, moving the people of Csytyr was exactly what Geneva wanted, and Michael didn't want to do anything to help that man.
Geneva acted like the idea of Dabiri escorting the civilians suprised him. "You would? But Father Dabiri, I could never ask such a thing of you!"
Dabiri shook his head. "You need not even to ask me, Lord Geneva. We shall do it, whether you ask it or not. These innocents must not fall before Thavirat, who, no doubt, would show them no mercy."
Geneva thanked Dabiri effusively. "I- nay, all of Csytyr- owes you a debt of gratitude. I shall request my advisor to find a room for you. I wish for you to stay here the night. Then, on the morrow, we shall have our civilians ready and you may continue on your way."
Dabiri nodded and shook Geneva's hand again. "It is us who owe you a debt. Food and shelter are rarely given freely in these times."
Geneva bowed again and left the room, along with the guards. The advisor motioned for the rest of them to follow as he moved toward their rooms.
Stinnett looks around himself, smiling wickedly. Andrew, his host, was quivering in terror, as usual. Stinnett looks about his sanctum, where the unfortunate Andrew had stumbled in and subsequently become posessed. Andrew was busy weeping in some corner of his mind, while Stinnett was gathering the necessary equipment for his actions. He had grown tired of his host body. Humans were repulsive, even more so than he had thought when he had created a body for himself.
Stinnett forces Andrew's body into the circle that he had inscribed in the floor just minutes earlier. Slowly, in a deep tone, he begins chanting the necessary spells. Pain slowly seeps into Andrew's body. Stinnett's control of his host begins to wane, but it no longer matters. Dust in the room begins swirling toward the circle and particles of energy begin to coalesce above Andrew's head. A pathetic cry escapes Andrew's mouth, interrupting Stinnett's dirge. There was no effect on the gathering maelstrom, however. Stinnett's chants were just for his own benefit. His spell was complete. Andrew dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face as pain wracked his frame. Screaming incoherently, Andrew tried to beg for his life.
"Sir Stinnett! Please!" he cired pitifully, his sight departing as the dust begins to abrade his eyes. Blood flows from dozens of wounds caused by the flying material, which is moving closer to the energy gathered above Andrew's head. The sphere of energy moves slowly downward toward Andrew, who feels its heat a fraction of a second before it collides with him.
In a flash of white heat and light, Andrew's limp body is thrown against the wall with crushing force. His lifeless body slumps to the ground, leaving a trail of blood that pools around his head.
Stinnett, in his own body, stands where the typhoon of heat and dust once was. He looks over at Andrew's body. "Fool." he mutters triumphantly.
Stinnett smiles to himself. He is free.
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