Chapter 1: Betrayed

To any casual observer, or passerby, the humble and unassuming monastery nestled in the gentle foothills of the Brood’s Cradle Mountains, in the southeastern regions of the vast land mass known as the Heartland Kingdoms, would appear as nothing more than the simple home of a small order of cloistered monks. Honest, hard working and pious.

It was within those walls however, where the eyes of the casual observer could not penetrate, that something far more sinister made its home. Beneath the monastery, in a deep vaulted chamber, an insidious power plucked the threads of control the world over.

In the center of that vaulted chamber, with its parquet marble floor; and its masterfully carved pillars inlaid with precious metals and gemstones, stood a table. A table to match or even exceed the unparalleled opulence of the room surrounding it. Hewn from a single Elvish Glowing Oak, its heartwood glowing with an inner fire all its own, and embossed with inlays of ivory, mother of pearl, and jade. The table was designed to be a conspicuous display of the wealth and power in the hands of those whom had sat in the seats around it over the four centuries since it had been carved.

Situated around the masterfully carved, and decorated table, in front of six unique inlaid designs along the edge of the table were six richly carved, and sumptuously upholstered, high backed, hardwood chairs. Designed to convey the eminence of the men and women whom had held those seats for centuries, the chairs seemed to broadcast a sense of strength, and power to all those who would see them.

It was in these chairs that men and women had sat for centuries, wielding influence, and intimidation. Their sole purpose; to be, and remain, the force behind those who rose to power throughout the major Western Kingdoms. And, perhaps even more importantly to them, within The Church itself.

At the head of the table sat a solitary throne, that dwarfed all of the ostentatious wealth on display within the room surrounding it. Carved from a single block of the purest gold; and adorned with flawlessly shaped gems of ruby and star sapphire, the throne was modeled in the form an enormous coiled Dragon.

It was a mockery of The Throne of the Silver Dragon. The ceremonial seat of The High Priest within The Basilica of Divine Revelation. The throne was intended to convey the idea that the one who now sat upon it believed himself above even The High Priest of Drachon.

Alston Mirondin; Chief Adjudicator of King Narlos of Khara. Baron of The Northern Expanse. And Hand of Power, now sat upon his golden throne. The rasping voice of the withered man seated to his left grating upon his nerves as he pondered the true issue that had forced this meeting of The Imperium.

The new High Priest of Drachon had proven himself to not only be a man of stubborn determination, but he also seemed to be strong enough to resist the sort of pressure and influence The Imperium could wield against him. At first he had seemed an easily manipulated, weak willed man. But somehow he had hidden the true depths of the steel within him. And worst of all, in Alston’s mind, he was forging alliances.

The desiccated husk, Ramstalic, sitting to his right thought he was playing a clever game. And in either a transparent power grab at The Golden Throne, or an attempt to sway some of the softer members of The Imperium away from the absolute devotion to The Hand of Power, had actually arranged this latest rebuke of Alston’s power and authority.

The truly amusing part of it all, Alston thought, was exactly how transparent the scheme truly was. Ramstalic had manipulated a meeting between The High Priest of Drachon, and Lord Ishidar. And on the surface such a meeting would seem commonplace; almost banal.

But the fact that Lord Ishidar was Commander General of the Armies of Verseric; one of the largest, most diverse kingdoms west of The Steppes; as well as being cousin to King Alarach IV, and the meetings significance became clear.

The High Priest was putting an army behind him. And that would put him beyond the grasp of The Imperium. And that just simply would not do. Power was a resource, and Alston was the Hand that controlled that resource. And he would do all at his vast disposal to keep his monopoly upon it.

With an annoyed glance he scanned around the table; at men whom wielded enough individual power to topple kingdoms, and grew even more deeply annoyed. The combined might of these men was staggering. And yet, here they sat, vacillating over an alliance that had yet to be even broached, let alone finalized. Alston felt the heat of his anger creep up the back of his neck as he watched the staid and timid old men surrounding him flounder and grasp at solutions.

“Enough Gentlemen!” He snapped suddenly. Cutting off the back and forth bickering going on around The Great Table, he continued, “This council has guided not only The Western Kingdoms. But the seat of The Church itself for the last four centuries. And for almost that entire time our single greatest foe has been our own inability to keep from each other’s throats!” Slamming his hand down on the table as he finished, Alston glared around the table once again for emphasis.

“The fact of the matter, gentlemen, is that were it not for the power of The Golden Throne the mongrel races would have seized power and exiled us, Drachon’s favored children, from the forums of his own church!”

Alston glared around the table once again. Looking into the gently illuminated faces of the old men that were his subordinates the seeds of a plan to solidify his authority even further beginning to take root. He knew each of them were involved in their own schemes and power grabs. He knew that each of them would, if they believed they could go undiscovered, be the first to drive a dagger into the back of any of the men seated at the table if it would advance their own designs. All of this he knew, and was, most certainly, NOT amused.

“The alliance between Ishidar, and The Silver Throne, must not be allowed to be ratified. The balance of power must not be upset. And most importantly gentlemen, The Silver Throne must not be allowed to fall from our sway.” Alston’s piercing blue eyes swept from one corner of the table to the other. Taking in the nodding faces of all of the doddering old fools he had been strapped with since taking The Golden Throne from his predecessor.

He smiled inwardly as the nodding of heads showed how much of their attention he now commanded. Now all he needed was to gain their ascent. “We can place any tractable man we choose upon The Silver Throne. And our forebears have dealt with inconvenient High Priests in the past.” His cold, vicious, smile showed the men beneath him just how far he personally was willing to go in order to maintain the absolutely iron grip of power The Imperium possessed.

Inwardly, The Hand of Power chuckled in gleeful amusement. The men surrounding the table; men whom wielded power enough to change the direction of entire nations, were cowed to his direction of thinking with little more than the implied threat of losing that power. The very idea that the implied threat of their loss of influence had been enough to further cement his hold over these fools was sweet justification to The Hand of Power. These useful tools would serve their own purposes. But he would be the one determining what those purposes were.

The internal chuckle turned to something very close to maniacal cackling; as he realized that Ramstalic honestly believed he had accomplished his goal in forcing a response to his supposedly unknown machinations. He had no idea his schemes were nearly as transparent as the withered skin stretched tightly across his scalp. And Alston knew just how to repay him for his temerity in assuming he could out maneuver a man of Alston’s caliber.

The Hand of Power knew there were two ways he could fall into the obvious trap set by the withered old fool to his right. Do nothing; and lose both face within The Imperium, as well as his strangle hold on influence within the Church. Or react predictably and remove the immediate threat. Which would provoke a violent backlash from both The High Priest, as well as King Alarach IV for eliminating Ishidar.

But of course there were other much more satisfying ways of dealing with both his meddlesome underling as well as this irksome alliance. Looking to his right, he locked eyes with the gloating Ramstalic, and smiled coldly. Assuming the posture of a man who knew his word was both divinely inspired, as well as absolute law, he held that gaze until the older man was forced to look away. Unable to hold the eyes of a man he knew he was ill equipped to battle; yet.

“Bearer of Deeds!” he intoned formally. Using Ramstalic’s title within The Imperium. “This alliance must never be allowed to be finalized.” Alston grated, his face growing grim, as the soft glow from the mystical wood seemed to etch to lines of his face in ever deepening shadows. “We must end this before all the work of our forebears is undone!”

Standing now, more for dramatic effect, and to give his unknowing puppet a sense that he had somehow shaken his nemesis he turned and walked away from the table. His final words echoing across the vaulted room with a finality that told the others in the chamber his word was to be followed without question. “Unleash The Weapon.”

Some days later, as the evening sun was just bathing the serene waters of Lake Syltier in a majestic blazing orange; Simon Valmoss; abbot of the tiny monastery that overlooked the lake sat and stared sadly out the window of his office. In his hands the letter trembled slightly as both fear and a great welling of pity rolled over him as he read it one last time.

Simon placed the parchment down on the small table he used as a desk and sighed deeply. Standing slowly he looked out the window at the almost idyllic grounds surrounding his monastery one last time. How had his life come to such a point? His anguished thoughts rushed through his mind once again. He had joined the priesthood filled with such fervor. Young and idealistic; he had pledged to bring the light of The Risen God to those whom needed it most.

And yet; some time in his past. So many years ago Simon could not even recall when exactly the incidents had actually occurred; Simon had fallen victim to his own vanity. Convinced he was destined to become a Prime Speaker, someone so in touch with the will of Drachon that they could, in times of religious ecstasy, speak with the voice of The Risen God himself.

His ego, so frail and full of need for reinforcement, had been buoyed by the small group of sycophants that had fawned upon him. Hanging on his every word as though they exuded the aura of The Risen God. And that had led him down the path of his own downfall. Both within the church, and in his own eyes as well.

The events were buried so deeply in the shame he had brought upon himself that looking back at the with any clarity was very nearly impossible. His actions had brought him to the point of not only failure, but to the rejection of his God. Convinced that he spoke for Drachon he had brow beaten his family, and anyone else who would listen for that matter, to his own point of view. He had railed against the sins he perceived all about him, casting all who disagreed under a cloud of suspicion and open hostility.

His hubris had let him believe that he spoke the absolute truth, despite his words and edicts being in direct contradiction of the laws laid out by Drachon himself for His church. And that had been where he had fallen utterly from grace. Not only in his own eyes but, he was sure, in the eyes of Drachon himself. And in a sign of His ultimate displeasure with his priest, The Risen God had refused to answer Simon’s calls.

It had been his lowest point, shunned by his followers and his God. Spurned by his family for their near brush with heresy, and despairing of ever being able to return to what he knew had been his life’s calling, had The Imperium approached him with their offer.

In exchange for his pledge of loyalty they had agreed to shelter his family any action by the church in retribution against them. And they had allowed him to “retire” to the peaceful little monastery he now called home. On the simple condition, of course, that he now act as handler for their living instrument of death. The Weapon. And it had been here that Simon had finally found some small measure of redemption. It was here, as a broken man, determined to live out the rest of his days in obscurity, that he had met Sayne.

A living embodiment of pain and revenge Sayne had, according to the documents left for Simon by his predecessor, been bred, born, and raised to be a brutally efficient pitiless killer. Used to eliminate any and all opposition that had presented itself to The Imperium. The very thought of such a thing in the hands of men as corrupt and ruthless as that group of cold hearted and power hungry men and women within that organization had terrified him. In fact his first instinct had been to abandon this false respite, consequences be damned. But the thought of his family, of his brother and sisters, suffering for the mistakes of his misguided arrogance, had stayed him from that decision.

And so he had manned his post. With a stoic resolve, and cold indifference he had issued the orders given to him. Directed as he was with no choice in the matter, he had given little thought to the outcome of those orders. And with a sad sigh Simon let those thoughts cascade over him once again. The deaths that his hands had helped orchestrate. The suffering that stained those hands. The guilt that all of those lives had ended because he was too weak to accept the fate he had brought upon himself. The coldly distant stance he had adopted, the only way he could stand to continue to follow his orders. Keeping himself aloof from The Weapon, and lamenting the appalling turn his life had taken.

Despite his best efforts to remain separated from The Weapon, eventually his natural curiosity had finally gotten the better of Simon. And slowly he had been drawn to Sayne. And had come to know the man behind the mantle of The Weapon. And what a man he had discovered! Sayne was a half breed, his mother a slave owned by The Imperium, had been Human. And his father had been a Dark Elf paid to father a child that would eventually become the instrument of absolute destruction on the part of those corrupt men who now ruled over them both.

The sad truth of it was that the very same prejudice that The Imperium had spent generations fomenting within both the Church, and the Kingdoms West of The Steppes had been used both as a means and a reason for keeping Sayne under control. By convincing him that his only choice of avoiding the wrath his heritage would bring upon him was through continued service to them, The Imperium had effectively held Sayne in a life of the most brutal sort of bondage.

Because of the hatred created by The Imperium toward the Elder Races, those same cruel and vindictive men managed to convince Sayne that because of his heritage, his only chance at survival was within their vile embrace. And through this lie had they managed to keep him under their control. An instrument of their will. Unfeeling, unflinching, and without pity or remorse.

Sayne had been savagely, and brutally trained. All desire to be anything other than what his masters had intended of him having been crushed under the inexorable heel of The Imperium and their minions. His body, Simon grimaced at the memory of first seeing it, still bore the evidence of their horrific abuse in the form of the terrible scars that laced most of his body. Mute testimony to the lashings and branding irons that had been used against him. Their methods making him all but immune to pain. Through that suffering they had molded Sayne into The Weapon.

Simon had read the notes of his predecessor with a sense of revulsion, as they explained in gruesome detail all of the grizzly methods they had used to hone Sayne into their perfect killing machine. In his entire life, Sayne had never known simple kindness, nor comfort. The boot under which he labored having attempted to grind out all that which was good or decent in him. Trying to leave him nothing more than a hollow thing, capable only of following orders. And it was with a wistful smile that Simon felt the exultation of relief spread through him, when he thought about how badly they had failed.

And so, compelled by his own empathy for a man whom had been so mistreated, Simon had reached out to Sayne. Offering him, perhaps his first taste of friendship in his entire life, and in those moments Simon’s heart had broken. As he had slowly grown to know the intelligent, observant man behind The Weapon he had decided to dedicate what time he had remaining in this world to making sure Sayne understood that, at least one person had cared for him without reservation. Knowing the full measure of brutality and wickedness that had gone into creating him had finally made Simon feel sympathy for another, and he realized, in trying to heal the pains of Sayne’s past he had inadvertently begun to heal his own as well.

It had taken time of course, forging the bond of friendship between himself, and someone who had come to understand that trust was something to never be given. But over the course of the years of Simon’s exile in the monastery Sayne had finally allowed him to see beyond the mask of The Weapon. And the revelations he uncovered within the man were breathtaking. He had learned of Sayne’s simple acceptance of his station in life. And the freedom from the guilt of his actions such an outlook allowed him were both a comfort in knowing that Sayne understood as well as Simon did that he had had no choice in the lives he had taken, as well as a sorrow knowing that he had been forced into all of those actions had been taken based on the lie The Imperium had forced upon him.

That outlook had surprised Simon in ways he wasn’t prepared to face at the time. To see a man whom had never known a day of true happiness, nor a touch of kindness from anyone he had known in all the lonely years of his life such as Sayne, could still find a sweetness in life. The idea had seemed foreign to him at the time. Absorbed as he was in wallowing in his own misery. But over their years together Simon had come to realize that Sayne was far more than simply the sum of his experiences. And that thought alone was enough to offer Simon some small measure of peace.

His belief that he had nowhere else to go, and that The Imperium was his only chance at being kept safe from the rampant prejudices within the Kingdoms west of The Steppes. It had given Sayne an ability to accept their vile treatment of him, thinking it could only be worse for him beyond the walls of the monastery. So seeing no other option Sayne had embraced the mantle of The Weapon. Submerging himself in the role of a heartless killer so completely that it had taken Simon almost a decade to finally reach the man underneath.

And then; one summer day nearly fifteen years after his exile had begun, Simon’s life had seen the first true miracle since he had joined priesthood. Sayne had returned to the monastery after being unleashed to eliminate a man whom had found himself working at cross purposes to The Imperium. A greedy and rapacious landholder, notorious for his vile treatment of the wives and daughters of his tenants. And in truth, there was little sadness nor regret in sending Sayne to remove such a horrid person. And Simon had been there to see the one true friend had still had topple, nearly dead, from his saddle.

His ribs had been broken; causing one of his lungs to fill slowly with blood. While the broken shafts of three arrows jutted hideously from his back rendering his left arm all but useless. And Simon had realized with a growing sense of horror that the only thing keeping his innards from spilling out upon the ground had been a fouled and filthy cloth barely cinched around his waist.

And for the first time in more years than he could clearly recall Simon felt not only sympathy, but a very real fear for the life of someone other than himself. Sayne had never deserved the life that had been forced upon him. And Simon had suddenly felt a fierce and powerful determination kindle within him. And for the first time in all of those years of his exile, Simon fell to his knees next to his stricken friend, and called upon Drachon for aid.

Simon prayed. Not a prescribed prayer. Nor a formula handed down through formal doctrine. But a prayer borne from a heavy heart as he watched a better man than himself gasp for whatever shallow breath he could manage. He didn’t pray to find penance. Nor to impress anyone with his connection to the Risen God. No, Simon had prayed because he knew he could not bear to watch this man whom he cared for like a son die without at least trying everything in his power to save him. And with the blind faith that had lead him down the first steps toward the priesthood Simon had prayed to a God he had not felt a connection to for more than a decade.

A smile creased Simon’s weathered face as he remembered the moment with absolute clarity. “O Risen God” he had whispered as he watched the light slowly fade from Sayne’s eyes. “I do not deserve the Grace of your blessing, so I do not ask for it. But this man, was never given a choice, nor a chance in the life he has been forced to live. I beg of you O Risen God, grant me your blessing just one last time, so that I may heal this man. He does not deserve to die this way.” A tear of happiness slowly traced its way down Simon’s face as the memory crystallized in his mind.

A surge that had felt like pure fire had raced up his spine while a flawlessly blue nimbus of light had enveloped his hands. And it was then that the true miracle had happened as, for the first time since Simon had found his calling in his faith, he heard The Voice of The Risen God; Drachon.

“Was this so terrible a thing my son?” the calm resonant voice had reverberated within his mind. “You had but to ask, with humility and heartfelt humble words, and you would be answered.” and with a powerful surge of energy Simon felt the full and unmitigated might of the Grace of Drachon wash over and through him.

He had watched in stunned joy as Sayne’s horrendous wounds began to heal. His breathing became deeper and more regular as his eyes began to grow brighter. As the gaping wound on his stomach began to knit closed, leaving clear unmarked skin in its place. A relieved smile spread slowly across Simon’s face, his eyes blazed in righteous exaltation, when he finally felt the direct presence of Drachon himself.

A shudder passed through Simon’s body as he recalled the awesome might of The Risen God infusing him completely. The sense of wonder as he looked down into the pale golden eyes of his only friend, had been nearly heart stopping. And with a clearly recalled sense of awe Simon recalled being granted the gift of becoming a Prime Speaker as he heard himself speaking Drachon’s voice.

“Be at peace My Son.” The voice of The Risen God had echoed around the tiny courtyard of the monastery in a powerful booming all encompassing sound. “My work for you is but at its beginning.”

Simon sighed as the memories finally came to an end. And his shoulders slumped with resignation as he realized that his stroll through history had also carried him to the inevitable conclusion of those thoughts. The cost of starting Sayne down his path of liberation had finally come due. And it was a cost he had taken five years to come to terms with. The blessing his God had granted him had come with the knowledge of what it would cost him. And now that it was time, just as The Risen God had foretold, Simon knew it was not a price too high for him to pay.

Simon glanced at the letter on his desk one last time, and sighed. Just as had been revealed to him, when The Imperium made to move against the house of a devout and righteous warrior, would Simon be asked to lay down his own life; in order for Sayne’s true path to be revealed to him. Now was that time. And Simon found that, surprisingly, he was more than ready to play his part in bringing down that corrupt nest of vipers.

The grounds of the monastery were not large. And the walk from his office to Sayne’s chambers did not take him longer than five minutes. And as he walked Simon’s resignation slowly turned into a fierce and resolute determination. Now was his chance to change the fate of a man whom had never been given the chance to live a life of his own choosing. Simon studiously ignored the glances of the neophytes in the passageways. Knowing the real reason they were there was as distasteful to Simon as his own. They were initiates within The Imperium. Sent here to find the true depth of their devotion to that collection of wicked men, and to determine where, within the organization, they would eventually be placed.

Looking down from the small stairs into the inner yard of the monastery, Simon sighed sadly as he took in the sum total of all of Sayne’s life below him. A table in the shaded far corner holding a brass bowl of gravel. Where Sayne had spent so many years, punching until his fists had become as tough as the stones which he struck. The densely packed dirt of the yard, showing a rusty color, mute evidence of the blood that had been spilled over the long years of Sayne’s training.

Simon’s eyes were drawn to the ominous T beams in the furthest corner of the court. The iron manacles dangling like the grim strings of a sadistic puppeteer. The shocking and brutal reminder to any who bothered looking, that the price of any failure on Sayne’s part had been steep and had come in the form of hours of agony while being lashed. The small corner of flagstones around the post stained dark with the blood that had been spilled over them.

Simon stood at the top of the stairs, and looked into the shaded north corner of the small courtyard and a sense of awe swept over him as he watched the scene below him unfold. Sayne stood, surrounded by five of the neophytes that had been sent by The Imperium to oversee in his training. His calm facade betrayed only by the icy glint of his pale golden eyes, as he scanned the group of men warily closing in on his position.

He gasped as the scene suddenly exploded. Flashing to his right Sayne whipped his training baton across in a tight arc faster than his trainer could hope to parry, forcing him to hop back to avoid a crippling strike. Following through with the motion, Sayne lunged with his left hand extended, training baton leading, and slammed it into the sternum of the man while he was still in the air from his desperate defensive maneuver. Without pause, Sayne corrected from the lunge and swept his right leg into a savage spinning kick, his heel bashing into the stomach of another of his trainers. The force of the kick could almost be felt from across the courtyard as the man had the breath blasted from his lungs in a single brutal instant.

Simon felt a small smile spread across his face as he watched his friend. He knew these poor men were horribly out of their depth. They had been selected for this position due to their martial skill, and their ability to cause pain and suffering in others without thought or conscience. And yet, even as he stood and watched, he knew they had never faced a man the likes of which now stood before them. It was both beautiful and terrifying to watch as Sayne methodically dismantled the attempts of the men facing him.

Watching from the top of the stairs, Simon was spellbound by the beauty and savagery of Sayne fully embracing the mantle of The Weapon. He moved with a fluid grace that only a lifetime of experience could teach. And as Simon’s breath caught in his throat at the sight, Sayne began to weave a complex pattern of destruction about himself with his training batons.

Spinning on his right foot Sayne rolled his shoulders, allowing the savage swing from his left to pass over his shoulder even as he delivered a brutal counter attack. The seasoned wood baton swept in, chopping with a resounding crack into the shin of the man to his left. Simon stood entranced as he watched the vicious blow drag the man’s leg out wide, even as he fell to the ground with a scream of agony.