Sudden Death

 

Sudden Death

“Your Eminence?” Arnos said quietly, his voice echoing through the darkened rooms of the interrogation chamber.

No reply came.

“Your Eminence...’tis I, Arnos, the Scribe, come as you requested.” This time, a bit more loudly.

Silence once again greeted him.

He ventured into the first chamber, shivering unconsciously as the leather soles of his shoes made unnaturally loud sounds against the stone floor. Oddly sinister. The half-heard whispers of the multitudes who had met their end here.

How he hated this place, and everything that it stood for! Misguided as the heretics were, surely there was a better solution than this awful place.

He fumbled around in the darkness till he found a torch, lit it, and only then allowed himself a small sigh of relief.

At least with the torch light, he didn’t feel as though the hands of the tortured dead were closing in, bent on taking revenge against him for the gruesome deaths they had undoubtedly met. Not at his hand, of course, but then, he did not imagine that the dead were particular, or that they cared about such details.

He was alive, they were not, and the darkness was their element. That was enough.

Yes, yes. Torchlight.

Most welcome.

He proceeded into the second chamber...more quickly now. More confident. Emboldened by the simple power of the light-giving torch.

“Master Liam...are you there?”

The second chamber proved to be as empty as the first, and from here, only two chambers remained. True, and a connective hallway which held some of the cells of the condemned, but no reason for Liam to be in there.

Arnos made a tentative step toward the inner-most chambers of the Inquisition when the unmistakable voice of the Inquisitor came from directly behind him.

“You’ve kept me waiting.” He said icily, and Arnos nearly dropped his torch in fear and surprise.

He spun about, mouth agape. “A...A thousand apologies sir, but Milo only found me a short time ago, and I came as soon as....”

“You have the scrolls?” He asked in an excited, impatient hiss, eyes ablaze with something decidedly unpleasant.

Arnos nodded and handed over the saddlebag, not at all interested in making small talk until the “something unpleasant” in the man’s eyes revealed itself.

“And your translation notes?”

The Scribe nodded. “Everything...in there.”

Now the Inquisitor smiled. “Excellent.” He whispered, walking across the room to a fire pit, where he dropped the saddlebag and stoked the embers.

Why would he....

The question was only half formed in Arnos’ mind when the Inquisitor spun ‘round more quickly than the Scribe would have imagined possible, and then...

Pain.

Arnos gasped at the sudden onset of it, confused, and looking frantically for its source.

He saw the Inquisitor’s scepter, with its wickedly pointed end and....

....it took him the span of several heartbeats to realize that it had been run completely through him.

He opened his mouth to cry out, to say something in protest at this unprovoked attack, but no sound would come.

He glanced down at the scepter again, dumbfounded, and this time, as he did so, great gouts of blood began pouring from his mouth.

Arnos sank to his knees, and the Inquisitor yanked the scepter out, hard. As he did, Arnos Whilton fell forward and hit the cold flagstones with a thud that echoed through the Chambers, and his blood raced toward the drain at the center of the room in a tangled maze of dark rivers.

Liam watched him with detached curiosity for a moment just to see what, if anything, he might do, but quickly grew weary of the game, especially when the Scribe made no intriguing efforts to save himself. In fact, he did not move at all, and only made the faintest of gurgling sounds as he lay there.

Shock. He said to himself.

After a moment, not particularly caring that the full measure of his victim’s life had not yet departed from him, Liam wrapped the body in a large, wool blanket, dragged it to the edge of the Well of Souls in the innermost chamber, where all the recently departed were unceremoniously dumped, and let the faithful Scribe go.

He sighed, almost wistfully, wishing that Arnos had made his final moments more interesting, but then shrugged it off. Perhaps it was for the best this way, and he had certainly lingered here for long enough, there was much to do!

And so, having accomplished the task at hand, the Inquisitor smiled a satisfied smile and made for his bedchamber. It had been a very busy day...quite taxing in its way, and he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep.

He was actually humming as he left the Chambers.

OoO

The Stairs

 

The human body is truly a remarkable piece of machinery. If given time to adapt and adjust, even a catastrophic failure can be compensated for.

Most commonly, this is seen in instances where loss of a major sense-center is concerned. If sight is lost, then hearing grows sharper, or the sense of touch becomes more sensitive and refined.

While the sense of taste is oft regarded as being something of a poor cousin to the others, it stands to reason that the same principle would hold, and this certainly seemed to be the case with Goderic Whilton.

Or, maybe it was just nerves.

Whatever the case, creeping in near perfect darkness down the long flight of stairs that led to the Inquisition Chambers, the four senses that Goderic did still have access to flared brilliantly to life, and told him a good deal more about his surroundings than the senses of most other men would have revealed. This by no means made him superhuman, but it did serve to give him an edge, and as scared as he was, with his heart thundering in his chest, he was thankful for any edge, no matter how small.

Disturbingly, he could find no logical reason for his fear. True, the rumors he had heard about the Inquisitor were enough to make a man's skin crawl, but there was no outward indication that his requested evening meeting with Arnos was anything other than routine. Nonetheless, from the moment Milo had knocked at their door, the whole business had left him feeling decidedly uneasy. That unease had swelled and grown, and was now an oppressive sense of dread that sat thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach, where it refused to be dislodged.

The moment he had set foot inside the Office of the Inquisition--a sprawling building that was as large as any Cathedral he had ever seen, three full stories in height and at least as many levels deep--he had broken Church Law, for only guards formally assigned to the Inquisition were allowed access.

If he were caught here on the stair, he would, in the best case, lose his commission as a Temple Guard.

He preferred not to even think about what would happen in the worst case.

Speed then, was unmistakably of the essence. Every second he remained here, in a place he clearly ought not be, was a second he could be caught. On the other hand, stealth seemed of equal import, and so, his progress down the flight of stairs could best be described as being one of cautious haste.

Two or three rapid steps headlong into darkness.

Stop.

Listen.

And then a few more.

The handful of times Arnos had talked about the fact that his work had recently called him from his lofty tower filled with only the most spiritually-minded men, and into the dank and gruesome Inquisition Chambers, he mentioned descending three flights of dreadful stairs to arrive at the place from which the Inquisitor had summoned him.

Dreadful stairs.

Check.

These definitely qualified.

Although he was quite certain that they were constructed of ordinary stone and mortar, there was something decidedly sinister about them. Almost as though the stones themselves had absorbed some of the agonies that the Inquisitors had put the countless numbers of heretics they had "questioned" through over the years.

He tried not to think about it and continued downward.

Three fistfuls of steps to the first landing. Only one fistful shy of the limits of his ability to count.

It seemed a safe assumption that each flight of stairs would contain the same number of steps, which meant....

....which meant....

His brow furrowed in a mix of frustration and concentration. Damn but he sometimes wished he was a smarter man!

Worse, he had been so intensely focused on the monumental problem of mathematics he was wrestling with inside his own head that he completely failed to see the ceremonial suit of armor situated at the corner of the landing, and very nearly elbowed it.

He drew in a deep breath as he stilled himself completely, and held it for what felt like an eternity as he strained to hear...something.

Anything.

Any sign that his presence had been detected.

A tomb could not have been more silent.

He shuddered at the thought, wondering how many people had met their end in this dark, forbidding place, and of those, how many remained somewhere within its bowels.

No one had ever reported seeing carts coming 'round to pick up the dead, which meant....

He banished the thought from his mind and ordered his legs to move before fear rooted him to the spot.

No good thinking like that.

He moved.

Two thirds the way down the stairs, he heard the sound he most dreaded to hear.

Footsteps approaching....but from above or below? With the acoustics of the place, there was no way to tell for sure, and no torchlight from either direction to provide a clue.

He froze there on the steps for half a heartbeat, uncertain what to do.

Retreat upward and lose ground?

That seemed the safest course, but a nagging sensation at the back of his mind argued quietly against it.

Listening to that inner voice, Goderic stealthily made his way down the last few steps to the second landing.

Still no torchlight, so whomever was approaching had no particular advantage or disadvantage over him, save for the fact that they had a better lay of the land....not a particular compelling advantage, given that the "land" in question amounted to a roughly twelve foot square landing on a flight of stairs.

Blessedly, there was another suit of ceremonial armor in the corner of this landing as well, and in the near perfect darkness, Goderic thought he saw enough of space between the far wall of the landing and the elbow of the ceremonial suit of armor that he could just squeeze behind it.

He sucked in his gut, made himself as small as one of his impressive girth could be made, and gave it a shot in the seconds that remained before the approaching figure's head would rise up out of the shadows, little more than a shadow itself, and be able to survey the whole of the landing.

Every inch seemed impossibly far, and he could feel the sands of time slipping away, hear it with every footfall the approaching stranger made.

Surely no more than three now...four at the most and the figure would be in sight, and he still had more than half his large, stocky frame in plain sight on the landing.

Faster! He thought urgently, willing more of his body into the cramped space.

Must go faster!

Another footfall, and another half second closer to his doom.

He was too terrified even to breathe. At the scant distance between he and the approaching figure in the darkness, a sharp intake of breath, one slight brush of his body against the armor he was half hiding behind and the game would be up.

J'honsa....if ever I needed a bit of assistance, now is the time....

Another footfall.

Surely the figure in the darkness could hear his heart thundering. Could feel the moisture from the sweat pouring off him.

He inched further behind the slim cover provided by the suit. If he could just make it, perhaps it, coupled with the inky shadows would be enough.

That's when the sleeve of his tunic got hung up on the armor.

God's Teeth! Goderic swore in his mind. Of all the....

Another step, and the head of the stranger appeared out of the gloom.

Liam.

The Inquisitor of Sutheron.

He more than half expected it, true...who else would be down here?

Still, at the sight of him, with his fierce eyes almost glowing in their malevolence, it was all Goderic Whilton could do to keep from wetting himself where he stood.

He bit his lip to keep from whimpering as the man drew nearer, fingers of his left hand feeling blindly for the material of his tunic, trying to free it in absolute silence so he could scoot the last few inches, fully behind the ceremonial armor.

Knees partially bent, already shaking, in both a combination of fear and the crazy sort of exertion that is required to remain absolutely still, he could not bear to watch Liam take the final step onto the landing.

Just before he did so...just before he set foot on the same landing as Goderic himself, his fingers finally freed the stubborn sleeve of his tunic, and he blessedly slipped fully behind the protection of the armor.

Had it not been for their extreme close proximity, he surely would have breathed a hearty sigh of relief.

As it was, he stood as still as his fraying nerves would allow, lip trembling, sweating gushing from every pore, praying that the next few seconds would pass him by uneventfully.

And then, the second worst thing he could have possibly imagined happened.

If not for the fact that it would have absolutely ensured the discovery of his hiding place, Goderic would have groaned aloud in a mix of misery and fear when the Inquisitor paused reflectively there on the landing, not five feet from him.

Liam was facing the suit of ceremonial armor, though blessedly, his gaze was more directed at the floor than at Goderic's poor excuse for a hiding place.

What had he been thinking? What had he hoped to accomplish by coming here? No answers came to mind, and in any case, he realized that it was too late for such thoughts to do him the least bit of good.

The way the Inquisitor's eyes were practically glowing in the darkness, Goderic found it impossible to believe that the shadows could conceal anything at all from the man. Any second now, he would lift his gaze and....

Liam stretched leisurely and rolled his shoulders. Cracked his neck loudly as he bent it from side to side and then, mercifully, he began to move.

For Goderic, nothing in the whole of the Universe could have been sweeter than that. Relief flooded through him and he slumped silently against the cold stone wall.

No.

No, that wasn't quite accurate though.

His movement was mostly silent, it was true, but there in the confined dark, even the smallest sound was picked up and amplified. It was barely more than a whisper, and yet, its effect on Liam was astonishing.

The Inquisitor tensed as though every muscle in his body had been pulled taut. His head snapped 'round sharply as his piercing eyes sought the source of the noise.

Probably the only thing that saved Goderic in those awful seconds was the acoustical nature of the landing, which made it nigh on impossible to discern the sound's direction, which had been the same difficulty Goderic himself had experienced when he had first heard the footsteps on the stairs.

That, however, was scant consolation to Goderic, whose terror rose to levels he had never before imagined possible.

Please merciful Highfather....Please, His mind choked out the desperate thought.

His prayer was answered, and salvation arrived in the form of a rat, scuttling along the edge of the landing, away from him, heading up the stairs and out of the Inquisition Chambers.

Liam caught the movement in the darkness and with a swiftness and ferocity that shocked Goderic Whilton, the Inquisitor brought the deadly point of his scepter down on the rat, with such sickening force that Goderic could feel the reverberation in his toes from several feet away.

It squealed as the scepter bit deep, and struggled frantically to get away, but it was far too late. The poor creature had been completely impaled, and Goderic watched in horror as Liam lifted it coolly to eye-level so he could better observe its death throes.

It didn't take long, but those were among the most agonizing seconds of Goderic's life, and when the rat had breathed its last, the Inquisitor sneered, kicked it off the end of his scepter with one booted foot, and then continued up the stairs and out of the Chambers, humming a cheery tune.

He stopped about halfway up the flight of stairs that Goderic had just descended and cocked his head to one side as if listening for something, and once again, the temple guard's heart threatened to beat its way right out of his chest.

Something...some awareness that he was not completely alone seemed to be flitting right at the edges of the man's consciousness.

Another fistful of seconds passed, and finally, Liam continued up the stairs and out of sight.

For his part, Goderic did not move for several long minutes.

He wanted to make absolutely sure that the Inquisitor hadn't forgotten something, or wouldn't be coming back this way for some other reason before he dared set so much as his big toe out from behind the ceremonial armor which had done such an admirable job at concealing him.

Finally, when the deep shadows began playing tricks on his mind, he forced himself up and away from the wall, and then thought to move from behind the his guardian knight.

The only problem was, his legs didn't seem to want to cooperate.

Move, damn you! He ordered them silently, but they seemed fairly content to keep him right where he was, in the relative safety of the deep shadows.

Not a good plan. He'd already spent too much time here as it was, and he could feel the seconds sweeping past him.

He needed to finish his descent, find Arnos, if his brother was still in the lower chamber, and then get away before he was caught.

Thoughts of his older brother steadied him a bit, and he found the will to move.

Blessedly, the trip down the rest of the stairs was uneventful, but when he arrived at last in the Inquisition Chambers, he was greeted with another mystery.

Arnos was nowhere to be found.

 

OoO

Belly of the Beast

The Inquisition Chambers were filled with all manner of vile machinery that looked to be designed with a dreadfully single-minded purpose: To torture human beings to death in the most painful ways imaginable.

He fought off a shudder as he made his way through the twisted, hateful fairyland that was this collection of underground rooms, and did his best not to think about how many had died here, choosing to focus instead on finding Arnos, who was proving to be conspicuously absent.

That was more troubling to his mind than the sight of all the torture devices taken together, and his heart sank as his inner voice whispered insistently that he would never again set eyes on Arnos.

He prayed for it not to be so, but in his heart of hearts, he supposed he already knew that it was, and this trip...this journey into the bowels of Hell itself was merely a confirmation. That was the true reason he knew he had to come, and the realization nearly broke his heart.

As he stopped in the innermost chamber, he imagined that he could feel some faint spark of the goodness that had been his brother, lingering here for a time before the Highfather saw fit to bring him home.

Yes, he decided at last. He could feel his brother here. He didn't know how, and thought it best not to question it.

He had come for confirmation...for an answer to his deepest fear, and he had received that answer. As the full weight of what that meant descended upon him, he wept unashamedly, the tears pouring down his cheeks in rivers, dripping from him and splashing almost soundlessly to the floor.

It was truly over then.

He bowed his head, closed his eyes, and said a heartfelt prayer for his vanished brother, bidding the gods welcome him into their Great Hall, and then, with great reluctance even though the place terrified him, he turned to go.

He was nearly halfway back to the long flight of stairs when he caught sight of something peculiar from the corner of his eye.

In thinking back on it, he could never quite say for certain what it was that drew his attention to the fire pit, but when he cast his gaze in that direction, he saw it.

His brother's saddlebag.

The one he had stuffed the scrolls into as he had left their cottage for the last time.

It was lying there, half buried in the hot coals, smoldering....outright burning in places, and lying half open, he could see that it quite clearly still contained whatever papers his brother had put in it before he had departed.

He stared at it, mesmerized by its presence, the faint hiss and occasional crackle of the blistering leather almost seeming to whisper to him, as if to say I am important, but without telling him why.

Perhaps he could find someone he trusted to tell him what strange secrets the scrolls contained, and perhaps that in turn would lead him to a deeper and better understanding of what had occurred here between Liam, his brother, and gods-only-knew who else, and....

That decided it.

Without hesitating....without even finishing the thought, Goderic rushed to the fire pit, reached in quickly and removed the saddlebag.

The torment this caused his fingers and hand were inconsequential...his brother was in there, or at least some part of him.

What could be saved, would be saved. It was as simple as that.

After he had retrieved the scrolls from the ruined bag, he replaced it on the coals, then stoked the fire higher with the bellows to help it burn more quickly. Let it lie there in charred ruin, so that when Liam returned and saw it there, he would be none the wiser.

He watched it for the span of several seconds, mindful of the swiftly departing seconds, and when he was satisfied that it would ignite well and completely, he made haste back up the stairs, and retreated from the Inquisition Chambers.