Evermore: The Gathering

CHAPTER 42


Adik. Jankyn.

Both dead.

Both. Dead.

The thought had been pounding in Farag's head all night.

Six robust acolytes were dragging the bodies away, taking them by feet or hands and laying them side by side in the back of the entrance hall.

Farag looked on grimly as they worked, the single thought in his head growing stronger and more insistent with each rigid body he counted.

Dead. All of them.

Adik and Jankyn - his dear brothers, entirely faithful to Paladine's will, most brave and holy men.

They were gone, but the wizard and his whore were breathing. Where was the justice in that?

He had been close, so infuriatingly close in the stableyard, but his hands had been tied. What sort of madman put a knife to a child's throat to save his own hide? Would Majere really have slashed that little girl? Farag wouldn't have put it past him to do that. Really, what else to expect from a man who - here Farag had to stifle a shudder of loathing - had attempted to become a god? The bastard's list of crimes just kept expanding. First seducing a cleric, then killing one in cold blood. Not to mention assuming a false identity and posing as an acolyte for a good many weeks. What possible motive he could have had for that, Farag did not know and did not want to know.

He and his men had been searching all through the night, but there was no sign of the two. The Head of the Black Robes was not protecting them, of that Farag was entirely certain: Dalamar Argent had been genuinely surprised at the sudden appearance of the search party, and to Farag's infinite amazement the blackrobe had been genuinely helpful, allowing them through the haunted grove unharmed and showing them around the Tower, patiently answering their questions and convincing Farag that he was not Majere's accomplice. On the contrary, the dark elf seemed more than eager to have his former master answer for his crimes.

After the Tower they had meticulously searched every nook and cranny of the temple grounds, finding nothing but dead bodies and cowering clerics.

The conclusion to be drawn was the following: either someone was hiding them in his house - but who? - or they had managed to flee the city.

Out of the corner of his eye, Farag saw Seth limping towards him across the hall. It had been a close escape at the stables. Earlier in the day Farag had heard a rumour that a group of people had invaded the Vault and opened the cell doors to let the inmates out, and just a few hours later he had found himself face to face with the escaped prisoners. The men attacking them had been fierce and ruthless, taking a swing at anything that moved. Jankyn, brave Jankyn, had managed to blind a few of them before falling, thus giving the others a chance to run towards the alley. The little girl had run too, sobbing and screaming, but the next time Farag had risked a glance back, she was lying on the ground, dying, and he had continued to run for his life, a massive purple bruise forming on his jaw where a fist had landed.

He was alive. Seth was alive. He had lost many men, but gained far more, and they now held the city. They had barred the gates, and tonight the glorious reformation would begin in earnest.

"Well?" Farag asked when Seth was close enough to hear him.

"Nothing," Seth shrugged, spreading his hands.

"Are you sure? Did you look everywhere?"

"The letter's not there," Seth insisted.

"It's not in Wargo's pockets, it's not in his room. So where is it?" Farag demanded, growing frustrated. They needed that letter. He had personally investigated Wargo's body where it lay by the door in the hall, going through all the pockets and even checking the Revered Son's boots - sweaty work, pulling the shoes off a corpse, sweaty and unpleasant - but did he find anything? Nothing apart from a key with a small silver triangle attached to it - Farag couldn't believe Wargo had actually bought something like that -, a few coins and a comb. If he hadn't seen it himself, he would have started to doubt that the bloody letter even existed.

"What would you have us do now, Farag?" Seth asked, looking at him like he had the answer for everything.

"I..." Farag began, but was cut short by a sudden crushing pain in his head. His sight went black and he fell down on his knees, shouting incoherently. He felt Seth's arms around him, but he pushed the man away from him, lifting his eyes and arms skyward as a vision pierced through the darkness.

Three groups of men.

One to the east: the Sanctuary in Kalaman. Self-explanatory.

The second to the west: Hargoth. Known for offering refuge to whoever asked for it.

And the third...

Farag grasped his head. "The library," he gasped. "Find out about the... Tarinius manor."

"Do you think they're there?" Seth cried. "Farag, do you think they're there?"

"Just do it!" Farag yelled, rocking from side to side, scorched by the light streaming into his soul like molten silver. "Thank you, Platinum Father," he kept whispering, "thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Gradually the light faded and the pain vanished. Farag opened his blood-shot eyes. Sweat was dripping from his ashen face and he was breathing harshly, but a smile was growing on his lips.

He would find the bitch and the wizard in one of those three places.

They would confess their sins in front of the Platinum Father and burn.

Oh yes.

Burn.