Liam F. Okinso

 

 

Book I
Darkness Falls

 

Liam F. Okinso

 

 

 

Inquisition Chambers - Sutheron
Year 178, AC

 

Screams.

 

Echoing through the cold stone corridors of the dungeon with an eerie, other worldly quality to them.

The man giving life and volume to those screams barely looked the part of a man at all. Ragged and beaten, blood oozing from fresh-made wounds in at least two dozen places, his body a patchwork of bruises and weeping scabs, the screams were truly all that Tash Rennken had left.

Another lash with the barbed whip, a series of new cuts along Tash Rennken's spine, fresh blood flowing, adding to the river that had already bled out of the man, and of course, another ragged scream.

The sound would have been bad enough on its own....the wet ripping as the barbed metal at the ends of the five "tails" on the whip embedded themselves deep, and then pulled away with a sickening sound, stripping the flesh to the muscle beneath, and then stripping some of that for good measure. That would have been more than gruesome enough on its own, but what made it truly hellish was the look of barely contained glee on the face of the Inquisitor each time the whip found its mark. Or the way the excitement in the man's voice made it waver anytime he attempted to speak.

The first time he had seen and heard those signs, Tash Rennken knew that he would never leave the "interrogation chamber" alive.

No matter what he confessed to, no matter how repentant he cast himself to be, this man...this monster in human skin would never allow him to leave this place.

It was his destiny, he realized, to join with his Dark Master, and the hour of his deliverance was at hand.

He was as ready as he could be, and he was not afraid of death or dying. As a humble scribe of the Forbidden Doctrines of Ollux, and a student of the Book of Shadows, it had been with awestruck wonderment that he, a mere Tash (in the Shadow Tongue, a relatively low ranking minion of the Faith, akin to an acolyte), had risked his own sanity in order to receive his Master's vision, but he knew his duty, and scribed it down exactly as it had been revealed to him. This, however, proved to be but the first act in an unfolding drama that he was to have a pivotal role in, and although he was not given to know what that role might be, ultimately, he was a faithful member of his Order, and would carry out the wishes of his Master to the best of his abilities.

And so it was that he had begun preaching. Spreading the word. Enlightening any who would listen about the dark glories of the times to come.

The words did not fall on ears that were eager for the news he bore, and his preaching was short-lived.

Ever-watchful for heresy, the Inquisition, had picked him up less than two days into his ministerial crusade, and spirited him off to Sutheron for the kind of questioning that only they could perform, and those few who had heard his remarkable words had written him off as insane.

Nonetheless, the message had been delivered. No matter what they did to him now, it was too late.

It was far too late.

It had been a risk worth taking, and now he was face to face with its consequences.

Another blow from the whip, with results as before, and he realized now that his death would be a release. The detached part of his brain that could still function with some semblance of rationality cursed himself for not being a stronger man. For allowing the agonies of his earthly body to overwhelm his self control. For giving the Inquisitor a certain measure of victory by crying out.

But of course, it was too late to take it back, and it was clear that the Inquisitor knew his work very well.

Knew exactly where to cut or strike or burn for maximum pain, with minimal damage to the body so that the torment could be prolonged indefinitely.

In truth, Tash Rennken had held up remarkably well. He had not issued so much as a whimper for the first six hours of his torment, but here, in the last four, his reserves of stamina had finally dripped out of him along with the greater bulk of his blood, and he could simply stand no more, and from that torment, a cry was born.

And then another.

And all the while, the Inquisitor smiled.

Please Master, claim me quickly. He prayed through the pain. Come claim your faithful servant. The message has been delivered...your work...your will is done.

The Inquisitor was speaking again, and Tash Rennken tried to focus on the words. Struggled to make sense of them.

"....cept J'honsa as your Savior, and I shall release you from this torment....that's not so unreasonable, now is it?"

He held out the Ring of the Inquisition, offering it to Rennken to kiss, and renounce the ways of his true Master, and oh how he wished he could do it! How easy to take the ring, beg for a quick death and have done with it!

Except of course, that doing so would eternally damn him in the eyes of his Master.

No.

He must persevere. Find new reserves of strength and hold on a little longer.

He must.

He....

The room spun and darkened, and the visage of the Inquisitor hovering above him dissolved away to nothingness.

Tash Rennken gasped as he watched a shape begin to form in the deep and swirling shadows.

I am coming.... He heard the deep, rumbling voice proclaim.

And your part in this is not yet at its end.

One final gasp as the image before him clarified, and then Tash Rennken breathed no more. His mind had time to register, but not react to the realization that the second phrase spoken in his mind had been a different voice. Something other than his Dark Master.

His eyes widened in surprise, and then it was finished.

OoO

Liam F. Okinso sighed heavily and stared down at the lifeless form of the Scribe before him.

Such a pity he had not lasted longer. In the years that had followed the Lady Ahnwick's ascension to power, both as the head of the Castillar family, and as the Reigning Prelate, the Inquisition found itself with increasingly less to do. She preferred gentler methods of persuasion, and the Office was rarely allowed to handle heretics in the manner in which they should be handled, leaving his kind with fewer opportunities to practice.

Although weakened, both in the scope of their operations and in the manpower available to them, they, the men of the Holy Inquisition, were still watchful. Ever vigilant. And when Rennken had appeared in the province of NorthShores, spouting his dark heresies, they had been quick to act, swooping down upon him like a great bird of prey and spiriting him off to their dark corners.

It was good that the matter had been brought to his attention in particular.

A lesser man might have simply tortured Rennken to death, and let his words depart from the world with barely a whisper.

That, however, was not meant to be, and if all went according to his design, there would be many more opportunities in his future to experience the pleasures of the work that he had just completed.

Oh yes.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the words of the Dark Prophecy wash over him once more.

Each time he did so, it made him shiver with a delight of quite a different sort than the one he felt when he was doing the HighFather's work and saving souls as he had just tried to do with Rennken.

That was an...almost sexual pleasure, but this...the way the words of the forbidden Prophecy moved within him as he thought....it was....

There were no words.

Only the Prophecy itself, and, he realized, they were words penned specifically for him.

He knew it from the moment he had first read the translation.

Words meant for him and him alone.

Never mind that he had been groomed from the moment of his birth for a different purpose.

That the Men of the Harraden had carefully structured his life so that he might one day prove to be the instrument that fulfilled their goals and dreams. He was their backup plan, in the event that his father failed them.

And nearly a decade earlier, his father had done just that. Mikail, called "The Usurper," by the victors who had written the history of Candle'Bre's civil war, had been a mid-ranking member of the shadowy, secretive Harraden, made important by the Eldritch power and the Noble blood that coursed through his veins, had come within a hair’s breadth of succeeding in the achievement of that Society's twin goals.

His untimely death had been viewed as a dreadful blow, to be sure, but the Harraden were nothing if not careful. And thorough. They’d had a backup plan well before they committed to the course of action that led to the Onyx Wars, and they had taught their protégé well.

The problem, it was decided, was that Mikail had been too headstrong. He had not come to the Harraden as a youth, with an impressionable mind, but as an adult, with thoughts, and an agenda of his own.

But by spiriting his son off under the guise of keeping him safe until he could be named as heir to the new Kingdom that Mikail would one day father, they could attend to his son’s training from day one.

And they had.

....and of course, from that moment forward, his future had been set, and his destiny controlled by men without names. Shadowy figures who operated beyond the realm of law. Beyond the realm of normal men.

Because of the blood running through his veins, the Harraden declared that he could be King, though not because he bore even the slightest relation to the sitting King (Charlatan that he was), and what young man would not be enthralled to hear such honeyed words.

So he had let them school him in their ways, and had taken their every educational recommendation, including this one, to weave himself into a position of power inside the Holy Church, and learn the intricacies of its functioning.

But in light of this, the Prophecy, what were the Harraden? What were their aims and goals?

If and where they aligned with the fulfillment of the Prophecy itself, then by all means, the goals of the Harraden could be fulfilled, and this would hold true for at least a number of years longer.

Sooner or later though, there would have to be….

A parting of ways, he said to himself, and then shivered with an almost drunken delight at the implications of all he had recently learned.

The next step then, was clear.

Wiping the blood off of his hands, he moved to an adjoining chamber, stripped off his robe and climbed into a steaming bath, where he scrubbed himself vigorously, removing all traces of Rennken's blood from his body.

Amazing how much work torturing a man to death could be...his arms and shoulders were aching in protest at the constant use, but the bath did much to refresh him, and in less than an hour's time, he was clean, dressed in fresh robes, and feeling much better for it.

He hastened from the dungeon and to his office on the first floor of the Temple Compound, took a seat at his vast oak desk, rang for one of his servants, and busied himself with the day's paperwork while he waited.

In a moment, a servant duly appeared, and he favored the man with an engaging smile. "Milo....are you occupied with some other task at present?"

"No, your Eminence, I am at your disposal!" Came the eager-to-please voice. Liam also noted that he was careful to keep the country "twang" out of his voice, which he knew to be present when Milo spoke with anyone else.

Liam's smile grew, and he nodded. "Excellent....and in that case, I instruct you to fetch Arnos the Scribe from the Tower of Records. He and I have some details to discuss about a case we're wrapping up."

"My pleasure to help in the HighFather’s work!" Milo said fervently, bowing low.

An adequate response. Thought Liam, enjoying the sadistic game of being ever-watchful for signs of insufficient displays of faith, even within his own ranks. Satisfied, he continued, with what could almost have been mistaken for genuine charity. "Off with you then, and once you have given him word that I'd like to speak with him, I want you to take the rest of today, and all of tomorrow, off. Enjoy some time spent fishing, or an afternoon with friends and family...anything your heart desires."

He absently produced a sheaf of parchment bearing the Seal of the Inquisition and quickly penned instructions indicating that Milo had the Inquisitor’s blessings at whatever he was about, and that he was not to be disturbed.

Milo was astounded by the offer, and could barely believe his good fortune. To be granted such a boon by the Inquisitor of Sutheron himself! It was.....it was all but unheard of! "Yes Sir, and th...thank you Sir!" He said in reply as he dashed from the door.

When the servant had gone, the warm, engaging smile he had shown only seconds earlier changed in its character, becoming a slow, dangerous, serpentine smile that wound its way across Liam's face.

"One more loose end to tie up." He whispered. "And then I will be the only man living who knows of the Prophecy."

He got up and stretched leisurely, and then headed back to the dungeon, where he knew Arnos would first look for him.