Heroes (Edit, Not Update)

Chapter 14 ~ Damar

Four nervous guard clerics waited in the small, sparsely furnished office that served as the High Cleric’s receiving chambers. The room was made of smooth white stone and lit by clean-burning torches held in white sconces. A long bench rested against the far wall and it was here they nervously waited for their audience.

The walls were completely bare of adornments except for one painting on the wall behind the large wooden desk and comfortably upholstered high-back chair neatly pushed against it. A large, leather bound version of the holy text rested on the desk, along with a small skein of sheepskins, a bottle of ink and white feathered quills in a plain cup. Writing utensils were a luxury. Most clerics used a stylus and a writing board of wax to record anything. Then if the writing was to be saved, it was captured on very thin paper, the impressions transferred by the use of a soft charcoal so the words were visible.

A large, severe portrait of the current Antimage, Phileas Filial rested on the wall, staring at them disapprovingly from the frame. He was of a rather pasty complexion, had a head full of boyishly - curly reddish brown hair, narrow, cold brown eyes, aristocratic brows, a receding chin and thick lips. Short of stature and rather stout, the leader of Damar was dressed in white papal robes and cap, the sign of Tears hanging from a golden chain around his neck. The clerics all swallowed as they looked up at the portrait.

The constant intoning of murmured prayers rose and fell as the host clerics kept up their constant chanting and consumption of cleric wafers. These were protective prayers, used to protect the Antimage and his environs. They were continuous, the host clerics rotating every six hours so the prayers were never-ending. On the left was the door the High Cleric would enter from. The guards nervously waited, not speaking to each other.

After about half an hour, the door on the left opened and the High Cleric entered.

His name was Elam Heiss. He was tall, about six foot four, bald and slender, olive-skinned with deep-set black eyes, a full mouth, high cheekbones and a strong, square jaw. He wore blood-red papal robes and a red skull cap as he swept into the room, followed by a frail, somewhat birdish looking man in rather dingy white robes with a thin neck, protruding Adam’s apple and quick blue eyes that darted about nervously as he stood to the right of Elam when he sat down. His hair was cut into a Mohawk, giving it a comb-like appearance, which only added to his chicken-like demeanor.

He was Donda Blushings, a recorder cleric. He carried a stylus and a number of thin pads with him, his duty to record what was said, and by whom.

Elam studied the four guard clerics and then said in a deep baritone voice, “The Blessings of the Antimage be upon you,” by way of greeting.

”And upon you, my Lord,” the guards intoned, looking at the floor in deference.

Elam got right down to business.

”I am told you saw an intruder,” the High Cleric said, displeasure on his face. “You claim it was a sorceress.”

All four men nodded, clasping their spirals, the pendants that glowed whenever they were in close proximity to sorcerers, provided they kept up their prayers and consumed their wafers, which were distributed each morning before they patrolled the streets of Damar. Although the practice had been going on for three centuries, this was the first time any spiral had glowed inside of Damar when no captured sorcerers were present. Usually only warrior and watcher clerics ever saw them work, the dull red of discovery flickering brightly. And always outside of the city. Up to this point, Damar had been considered impenetrable.

”Yes, my Lord. We were walking from the market area, heading for the residential, when suddenly our spirals began to glow. We looked about and saw . . . saw,” one cleric said . . . faltering.

”Saw what?” Elam demanded, his eyes narrowing as his face twisted with displeasure.

”A kind of door in the middle of the road, and a woman standing in it, looking up at the sky. It was so strange, my Lord, it was a black space that we couldn’t see beyond the woman. She was dressed in pure white, like an angel . . . but our spirals glowed so we knew she was one of the Corrupted,” a second cleric said.

”They are deceptive,” Elam said, “covering themselves to look innocent and pure when they are powered by darkness. Continue.”

”We drew our clubs and tried to capture her while she was preoccupied, my Lord, but she saw us and she was startled and fearful. She pulled back and the door . . . disappeared as if it had never been there,” another cleric said. “There was no trace of it left and our spirals ceased to glow.”

”You should have been faster,” Elam hissed.

”Forgive us, High Cleric,” the men all intoned, falling to their knees and clasping their hands together in penance.

”Did anyone else see this sorceress?” Elam demanded.

”Several citizens saw something, but they didn’t understand what it was they saw,” another guard said.

”Have them brought to the citadel for ‘understanding,’” Elam said to the guards, still frowning at them. “And you are all to deliver extra offerings as penance for your failure, scourge yourselves and double your prayers of supplication in hopes that Heaven will forgive your laxness. Be thankful the Antimage is merciful. You are dismissed.”

Their eyes on the floor, the guard clerics left in great shame. No doubt the scourge would be applied with alacrity, their self-inflicted wounds deep and painful as well as visible above the collars of their robes as proof of their remorsefulness.

Elam’s eyes shifted to Donda, who had recorded everything.

”The guard clerics are to double their shifts, thirty more men added to each,” he told the recorder, “effective immediately. If there are not enough, call in a few of the older warrior clerics.”

Donda bobbled his head in a chicken-like manner.

”Yes my Lord. Immediately,” he said.

”And Donda, see that one of those clerics give a description of the sorceress they saw to an artist cleric. I want to be able to identify her should she be seen again. The image shall be handed out to all the clerics and citizens. If she is captured, she is not to be taken to the Chambers, but brought directly to me. I must know how she accessed Damar.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Donda replied, bobbing in a nervous bow, then hurrying out the door they originally entered through.

Elam sat at his desk, removed his skull cap and ran one large hand over his bald pate. This was a bad development. If sorcerers had found a way into Damar, then the terraforming and guarding of puddles at sunrise and sunset was useless. Not only that, but Damar itself would fall under siege. He had been working privately on a new prayer for the past three years, but he was not yet ready to reveal it. He had almost lost his life twice while applying it. But, if he could get it under control . . .

Elam’s eyes narrowed.

He was next in line to be Antimage. Phileas was in his mid-seventies now, old and rather infirm. Elam was his trusted servant and voice to the people. He did more and more of the old cleric’s duties, while he stayed in his chambers writing useless edicts and abusing his brides. He only appeared in public during the services now, to give his weekly message to the people. But, he had the Ring of Cletus, and that gave the old bastard power. If not for that ring, Elam would have been Antimage long ago, but it protected the Antimage from treachery, and he never removed it. It was true that use of the ring took years off a human wearer, but Elam couldn’t risk being killed in the hopes that losing a few years would destroy the already aged Phileas. He had to bide his time.

The cleric looked thoughtful. Perhaps this new danger could be of use in some manner. Perhaps he could find a way to exploit it and speed up his ascension to the throne of Damar. It was time they had a strong leader, one willing to make changes to the lives of the people. There were so many technologies available, technologies that would make life in Damar easier. He could always pass them off as gifts of Heaven.

It was time to move Damar into the twenty-first century. He could still control their minds and hearts, keep them uneducated and fearful of Heaven’s wrath. But he could do it with a wide screen HD television with a satellite dish.

Elam had been through the ranks of the clerics, and spent much time in the normal world, indulging himself in the lifestyle. Unlike most clerics, he was not a zealot. He quickly realized there was more to the world than killing sorcerers, and unknown to his comrades, had studied and learned about the world, not just to learn to live in it, but to embrace it.

Still, sorcerers had to be taken and killed, and not because they were abominations as the Antimage and his forebears taught the people . . . but because they were a source of great power, a power that was coveted, a power that was the greatest secret of Damar.

Without them, that power would be lost. And no Antimage wanted that. The war had to continue. The sorcerers had to be collected and bled.

Elam had to think and think hard as to what he would tell Phileas.

This could be an opportunity to be rid of the old fool once and for all.

He stood up and retired to his rooms to pray for guidance.

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Artimus, Dahlia, Kreacher and Bluebell appeared in the Room of Requirement. Artimus looked around, totally unimpressed as Dahlia bit into the egg and tomato sandwich Bluebell insisted she take, since she wasn’t going to breakfast. The little elf held a bottle of milk to chase it with. She had a job to do after all.

Artimus looked around the stone room, completely unimpressed.

”This is the magical room you told me about?” he asked Dahlia. “I don’t see a door. I don’t see anything but four damp walls. There’s not even an entrance.”

Dahlia swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and scowled at Artimus.

”I’m telling you, this room opened on to Damar, Artimus,” she said, then looked down at Bluebell. “Bluebell, how do I get the room to produce the door?”

”You asks it,” the little elf replied. “It will shows you what you wants most.”

Artimus looked at the little elf, then at Kreacher, who nodded.

”Fine,” Artimus said, then said,”Room, show me the way to what I want most.”

Suddenly a door fuzzed in, ordinary and brown.

”There it is,” Dahlia said excitedly, “but be careful Artimus. Last time there were clerics on the other side. Angry clerics.”

Artimus conjured his crossbow and quiver, his face in a black snarl.

”What . . . what are you doing, Artimus?” Dahlia asked him as he told Kreacher to accompany him to the door.

”If there are clerics on the other side of that door, I’m going to show them what it feels like to be ambushed,” he growled, “you stay back, Dahlia.”

Horrified, Dahlia tried to stop him, pulling on his shirt. Artimus whirled on her, his eyes full of hate.

”Dahlia, let me go,” he said in a low voice.

She stared at him, then slowly released his shirt. Artimus hated clerics with a passion and she knew why. It was a tragedy they both shared. She had lost her parents to clerics as well, although not together. Her father was killed first, overseas. She had been young. Seven years old and he was in the military and left her and her mother stateside. She had sent her teddy to him, to “protect” him.

Dahlia didn’t know she was a sorceress, or that the things she handled constantly held her signature. The Protectors had her signature dampened so her abilities would not set off the cleric’s spirals, but that little stuffed toy was put outside of her protection, and was immediately identified at the post office by a watcher cleric employed there, his spiral lighting up when he touched it. He gave the information where the package originated from to other watcher clerics, who passed it on to the warrior clerics, but Dahlia and her mother had moved without giving a forwarding address, going to stay with Mama Gigi for a while in Louisiana.

The package was tracked closely until it reached its final destination. Lieutenant Francis Joiner.

When his decapitated body was found, it was thought he was the victim of one of the many terrorist groups in the area. Decapitation was one of their usual modes of operation, and several claimed responsibility for his death. It was only after Dahlia was taken into the magical realm that the truth of his murder was revealed to her. She joined the Protectors as soon as she hit eighteen, which was the youngest a volunteer could be.

Dahlia thought she would get satisfaction from slaughtering clerics and avenging her father. But she didn’t. She found that looking down on the bodies of dead clerics gave her nothing, nothing but more death. No matter how many she killed, she could never bring her father back. But she was committed now, and continued fighting clerics wherever they were found, all the while dreaming of a permanent end to the slaughter on both sides. Sorcerers were born to perfectly ordinary people. There was no way to ever wipe them out, which meant this war could continue as long as there were people on earth. A never ending slaughter, all meaningless. There would never be a victor.

Then, her mother Marie was killed, believed to be the victim of a serial killer, and the authorities did capture a man who would chop off his victims’ limbs without any sexual abuse. He was a deviant who left the head for last, his victims still alive before he struck the killing blow, then stacked the parts neatly against each other, trunk in the center, arms and legs vertical and leaning against the trunk and the head resting on top of the severed neck. Dahlia’s mother’s death didn’t quite fit his method. Only her head was removed, but they attributed it to him anyway, figuring he had been disrupted in his slaughter. The murderer was so insane, he never said anything different, so the case was closed.

Dahlia knew better, but she’d sound insane telling the authorities crazed clerics from some holy city killed her mother because her daughter was a sorceress. Besides, there were other sorcerers who lived in the normal world who would have done their best to discredit her. They did just fine without ordinary people knowing about them and despite not being a close knit society, would work together to shut someone the fuck up. No one wanted to be a guinea pig for science.

So, Dahlia continued her education, honing her magic, getting accepted into Finklenook and throwing herself into her research as much as possible, while serving as a Protector of the Realm and counselor for young sorcerers-in-training during the summer months. Like Artimus, she knew tragedy, but unlike him, she hated the war . . . not the warriors. She would only kill in defense of herself and others.

But everyone handled their private pain differently and all Artimus saw when he looked at clerics were robed murderers of innocents. It might be different if they only took sorcerers . . . but they didn’t. They killed anyone that was intimately involved with them as well, whether they were magical or not. His parents had been Quakers. Kind, loving, faithful as well as pacifists. They would never lift their hands against another human being. Still, they were murdered, despite their faith in a loving heaven, and in front of their friends and fellow Quakers, who stood by and did nothing but plead impotently, and scream when they were summarily executed.

No one even called the police until after his parents were dead. If his half-sister Morgan had been home, she wouldn’t have been spared either. Morgan didn’t speak to him anymore. She knew he was a sorcerer because she had caught him using his magic, and begged him not to use it, that it wasn’t right and evil. Quakers were notoriously open-mined, but Morgan was young and frightened. At the end, she blamed him and his magic for their parents’ death. Although she prayed for Artimus constantly, she’d have nothing to do with him. But protections were kept on her and her family just the same.

Now, he could go on the offensive. Murder them like they murdered innocents. Dahlia sadly let him go, knowing that no matter how much the sorcerer loved her, this was something deep inside him that couldn’t be soothed away by that love. Hatred was a powerful emotion, and the only emotion Artimus had when it came to clerics.

He nocked an arrow, pointing it at the door.

”Open the door, Kreacher, and get out of the way,” he ordered, his dark eyes glinting.

Kreacher looked up at the sorcerer. He was strong and brave, not unlike his former master, Regulus Black.

”Yes, Sorcerer Rogue,” the old elf said, flicking a hand at the door so it swung open.

Dahlia conjured her sword and ran to Artimus’ side. If he were going to fight clerics, she’d be beside him.

The door opened, sunshine pouring through, blinding them for a moment before their vision adjusted. Artimus blinked, scowled and lowered his crossbow in disgust.

Dahlia let out a sigh of relief as both Kreacher and Bluebell walked up and peered through the door in disbelief.

It had opened up not on Damar, but on a glen in the magical realm. A bunch of dancing, frolicking Fey in fact. Leprechauns played fiddles, kobolds beat on drums and little horned satyrs played pan pipes as a large number of magical creatures danced about annoyingly. Elves, fairies, naked nymphs, hamadryads swinging from boughs of their trees, unicorns prancing on the fringes and ogres snapping their sausage-like dirty fingers and stomping their big dirty feet in time. It was a hullabaloo as they hopped about, more magical creatures exiting the forest to join the party. The Fey always partied. A few gremlins passed around a flask of very potent elderberry wine.

”Oh damn it,” Artimus said with a sneer, letting his crossbow drop to his side. “It’s the magical realm. I thought you said it opened up on Damar.”

”Well, it did,” Dahlia said, smiling at all the dancing Fey. Normally she found them annoying, but she was happy to see them this time. “Maybe you wanting to go home overrode your desire to see Damar.”

”Nothing would override my wanting to kill clerics,” he growled.

Kreacher’s ears flattened as he looked up at Artimus. He wanted to tell him something.

”Excuses me Sorcerer Rogue, sir,” the elf croaked.

Artimus looked down at him with a frown.

”The room not gives what one wants but what one needs, sir. You don’t needs Damar. You needs to go home,” the old elf said hesitatingly.

Artimus’ face twisted.

”No fucking room’s going to tell me what I need. I know what I need. Revenge. Closure. Dead clerics,” he snarled, slamming the door shut. “Not a bunch of dancing Fey!”

“Show me Damar!” he yelled at the room. “Now!”

Suddenly, Kreacher winked out.

Artimus didn’t notice, but Dahlia did. She also noticed that Bluebell’s ears had flattened entirely against her head.

”What’s wrong, Bluebell?” she asked the elf as Artimus continued demanding for the door to Damar to appear.

”The Headmaster,” the little elf whispered fearfully, “he comes.”

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A/N: Whew. Artimus is pissed. Now we know Dahlia’s background. Seems the ROR’s not as helpful as it could be, eh?