By Dragon’s Decree: Use of the Sender’s Guild requires a writ of authority from the Tower of Scales - a decree passed by Dragon Arrietty Magnolia, 1232

  “DYLON!” Atilan bellowed, shouldering his way through a group of soldiers. Dylon seemed to ignore Atilan, and was making his way through a parting crowd. Dylon’s two toughs, on the other hand, stared daggers at Atilan, and gestured to their weapons. Did they deign to think Atilan would be frightened?

  Atilan slammed a foot onto the ground, and ordained forth High-Strands, golden light extending out from him in a ripple. They solidified into a massive semi-circle of wooden boughs that walled Dylon and his thugs off and stopped them from progressing. A wall of stone would have done just as well, but best remind the people he was more than a mere practitioner. He was Vessel, his word reflected the will of the High Father, and he could ordain organic matter itself.

  Dylon wore a well-practiced mask of calmness, as he slowly revolved to face Atilan, doing a commendable job of looking annoyed. A single foot tapped at the ground with impatience, and he crossed his arms over his shoulder. But Dylon could not entirely quell the look of unease that danced in his eyes, the way he kept shifting attention to his two ruffians, the way his hands and forehead beaded with sweat. Weapons were drawn by his followers, as Atilan approached. Bronze light tossed them into non-existence. It was near impossible to do that to material held by others, but at the moment, absolute conviction and fury ruled Atilan, and those two failed to live up to their own convictions.

  Finally, Dylon lost his control, taking a few steps back, and finding only Atilan’s barrier to prevent his escape. Dylon was desperately looking for anyone to help him. Silver light flashed as bands of metal wrapped over his ruffian's feet and held them in place, and rags wrapped around their mouths to stop them from shouting.

  “Sir Vessel?” Dylon squeaked, pressed fully against the wall. Atilan grabbed the cuff of his shirt, and slid him up the wall, so that his feet dangled off the ground. Gold light poured forth from Dylon and Atilan ordained the ground to grow beneath them, as twisting branches of wood and growth ferried them higher and higher. Twice now this night, Atilan had flown towards the heavens. He wondered if twice he would fail to get the answers he wanted. Below, he knew soldiers would be seeing him, and would be preparing weapons. They would not fight him though. Only the very stupid or the very assured would start so cataclysmic a fight, and Atilan doubted any of the soldiers here were so possessed of themselves to do so.

  Dylon was utterly still as his body dangled over the nothingness, his life in Atilan’s hands. How often Atilan found himself in these situations, no matter how much he tried to avoid it. “Atilan? You can’t kill me,” Dylon did not sound very sure of himself. “Even you can’t murder an innocent without some proof. Besides, aren’t you all about–”

  Atilan dropped Dylon. His scream split the air, but was cut off sharply as he landed on a newly formed platform five feet below him. Then, the platform rose in the air back up as Atilan slammed a foot down on the elf’s chest. Dylon coughed and sputtered as Atilan leaned forward and growled, “You are going to give me a few answers. If you lie to me, or try to hide information, or act the fool, I am going to drop you. Am I understood?”

  “Yes,” Dylon squeaked.

  “Was this riot planned by Judge?”

  Dylon went pale. He looked around, as if contemplating which fate would be worse for him. Atilan vanished enough of the platform so that one of Dylon’s arms flopped suddenly down. His eyes widened further, and looked like dinner plates on his angular face. “NOT ENTIRELY!” Dylon eked out. Atilan glared at him. Dylon was a puddle of sweat and fear.

  Atilan was beginning to feel sick. Had he not sought to better himself? But, as he stared downwards, he saw the aftermath of this night. Sometimes, one needed to skirt lines if it meant saving more in the future.

  “Look, Judge doesn’t tell me much! I swear by the High Fa–”

  “Do not sully His name by swearing by it. I would not trust your tongue if you did.”

  “FINE!” snapped the elf. “I swear by my own skin Judge doesn’t fucking tell me anything. I am his little errand boy and if I do a good job I might get a crumb out of him.”

  “Finally, some actual honesty,” Atilan said. “What crumbs did you snatch from the floor?”

  Glowering, Dylon said, “Not much. He just told me tensions were high, and if I got the chance, it would benefit him for things to fall apart here. He didn’t even order me to do anything. I’ve been sat in this backwater town without any actual direction. I just lucked out by arresting the right person I suppose.”

  “The one found outside Duhnlaid’s?”

  “Yes, and no, you can’t talk to him, he was one of the ones we managed to banish.”

  Atilan gritted his teeth. He had missed that, in all the confusion. There was too much going on, and he ignored the plight of people. He hadn’t the numbers yet, but he suspected about fifty prisoners were taken away, and too many had died in the ensuing mess. The rest, he did not know what would happen. More tasks piling on his shoulders. He wondered if eventually the weight would crush him.

  “And you, did you get anything out of this?”

  Dylon shrugged his shoulders. “Won’t know until Judge finally speaks to me.”

  Atilan was silent for a long moment. Finally, he began to have the pillar recede back towards the ground. Dylon visibly relaxed. Five feet from the floor, Atilan dropped him, and the elf let out a strangled screech as he landed with a satisfying thud. Bronze light released his ruffians. One of them took a step towards Atilan, but stopped when Atilan laid a hand on the hilt of the Unicorn Horn. Atilan did ordain forth a gold Strand to heal a cut on Dylon’s head from where he hit the ground. Best not give Dylon an excuse to arrest Atilan. He sailed too close to World’s End already.

  Atilan strode away. What to do next? Lydia and her pupil were beyond his reach for the moment, as were any of the Red Wraiths. Atilan’s authority would not extend far enough to interrogate traitors to the Throne without permission from either Arrietty or a Line Lord. Unfortunately, Atilan did not have either an established relationship with them, or if he did, it was on very poor terms. He laughed a bit to himself, he never was great at making friends. The Lusamyre was still unconscious from his fall and reversion back into man; he was a tomorrow problem. Atilan still needed to investigate Duhnlaid. He then pulled out the crumpled note in his pocket. There was blood on it, long since dried. He did not need to open it to know the words, their contents were etched into memory.

  You must be at the Banishment. Everything will change there. The day after, go to the alley between the Sunbrick Inn and Maveryn’s. I will meet you there.

  It was unsigned, and the blood staining the envelope had been fresh when he found it at the door to Mellowhaven. He did not recognize the hand-writing. It was barely legible, and looked untrained and shaky, as if written by the hand of a drunk. But the words were clear. He suspected they were dictated by another, the spelling too. Normal handwriting would flow a bit into each other, but here, it was as if each letter had been written one at a time. Mystery upon mystery. And Jehan wanted to speak to him too.

  Shouts, shrill and terrified drew his attention. Looking up, Atilan saw two Pastors sprinting through the streets towards the docks, arms waving. Their brown shawls whipped in the wind, their hair tousled and frayed. Fear etched their features with lines clear and sharp.

  “GUARDS, SOLDIERS! HELP AT THE CHURCH!” One of them screamed.

  “MURDER! THE RED WRAITH AT THE CHURCH!” shouted the other.

  The plaza, still filled with the scent of blood, bodies still littering the ground, erupted into confusion and chaos once more. Atilan saw soldiers running towards the two Pastors, demanding details. Others were already on their way. Still, others stayed put. None of the Wyvern Guard left their post. Atilan’s lip twitched. His decision was made for him it seemed. He began to run, but found the crowd cumbersome. So, he took to the skies. With each step, he summoned a pillar on which to stand, then another, and another. He ran across and vanished the ones behind, and leapt over the crowds which impeded him. He made them out of wood, and let the gold light of High Strands illuminate him.

  It is in the darkest nights that people need the brightest signs.

  The Red Wraith, they were the top suspect for Duhnlaid’s death. All the signs were present, but Atilan had still been unsure. They had never before gone after the Church, and most of their targets had been particularly vile members of the nobility, the kind even other nobles sought to avoid associating with. That was the reason several groups across Artaghan associated themselves with the enigmatic figure. They ferried death, and always a gruesome one. It made his stomach curl thinking of the ways some had been found. He had never laid eyes on a victim, but he had been given reports.

  As he ran closer to the Church, Atilan tried to ignore a thought bubbling in the back of his mind, one he had tried to curtail before, and yet one he never quite managed to ignore: he was reminded of his old ways whenever he read of the Red Wraith.

  The Church wasn’t as far as it could have been from dockside, but it was still distant enough that Atilan began to feel his lungs burn. When he became Vessel, undergoing the ritual and ceremony to make his body fit enough to manage the power he was given, he became perfect. It was as if the clock had turned back for him. But now, almost two decades had passed, and he was beginning to feel the grip of time on him again. Not even five years prior would this sprint have winded him.

  The Church itself was pressed into a rut in Iron hill, dug out long ago by the dwarves for a long crumbled fortress. A new wall stretched from one end to another, and the Church was built within, butted against the cliffside. Atilan, as he ran, saw the gate was shut, guards looking wildly around, as if seeking to spot something they could not see. The crowd had long since thinned out, and he was running along the streets again. It would take time to raise the portcullis. Instead, he plowed forth, and with a wave of his hand, vanished part of the wall. Nearby, one of the guards shouted at him, uncertain sounding. Atilan ignored him, he would recognize Atilan eventually once he noticed the flickering High Strands left in the wake.

  In the courtyard, Atilan smelled blood and sulfur. His nose wrinkled at the stench. The blood he expected, though not this soon. The sulfur though, gave him pause. Had one of the priests began to burn it to ward away the Wraith? He knew it was used as an incense to ward against evil spirits, a practice that bordered on heresy, taken from old Yarotadh Tribe customs that gained popularity in the past.

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  It was also eerily silent. Behind him, Atilan saw the crunch of dirt, and the thump of boot on stone. “Sir Vessel? Is that really you?”

  A guard was speaking. He wore a tabard over chain, with one side showing the Unicorn, and the other the twelve-spoked wheel of the Church. He was shaking, holding his spear, and it rattled in his hand. He looked barely old enough to hold a weapon, his face white as death.

  “It is I,” Atilan said, still walking towards the door of the church. It was ajar, and with each step, decay and brimstone assaulted his nose. The smell was too foul to be the remains of a single body. The Red Wraith always had a single target, and killed them efficiently, if gruesomely. Atilan paused at the threshold, the pungency of death almost too much to bear. “Soldier, did you see what happened here?” Atilan asked, not turning, not moving forward.

  “Some…”

  Atilan opened the door.

  It would take hours to discern how many bodies were left in the hall, for they were in too many pieces to easily ascribe which belonged to which. Atilan had thought the smell bad before, but with the image in conjunction with the stench, he fell to the floor, and the meager contents of his stomach were exorcised from his body. Horrors Atilan had witnessed before, he had seen people mauled by the worst spirits and creatures the mind could conjure. But never had he seen it done on such a large scale. Even worse, were the words. They were scrawled on the walls and ceiling, occasionally blocked by blobs of blood or remains of bodies smashed against them.

  Atilan could not read what they said, no one could. They were wrought in Morterran, the language of the Broken Land, the language of the fallen son, the language of the High Father’s enemy. Behind him, Atilan heard the soldier heaving out his own stomach, though it sounded dry; he must have already relieved himself.

  “What happened?” Atilan asked.

  “I-I…I don’t right kn-know,” sputtered and coughed the soldier. “I was on g-guard outside, and h-heard screaming. “By the t-time I-I-I got here, this is wh-what I found. Some Pastors we-we-went running for help. I tried helping some-somebody, but they…I-I-I couldn’t help them.”

  Atilan only just saw the boy’s hands were stained red. There was a hollow look in his eyes. Atilan cursed himself. He was getting sloppy, he should have noticed that sooner. He put a hand on the kid’s shoulder, and felt the warmth of the High Father glow within him. It was a constant thing, the presence of the one above. It resided in his core, and from it came his glow, his warmth, his power. Atilan tapped into it, and drove some of the warmth into the boy. “You did what you can, this isn’t your fault.” Atilan knelt down, so that he was eye level with the kid. Atilan raised their chin so that their eyes met. “I will not force you to help, but I think people here are hurt, and if there is any chance we can save people, I will need help. Can you lend me your hand, step into hell beside me and bring the High Father’s hand to those who need it most?”

  Atilan saw strength in the boy’s eyes. It was a common fault of the powerful to assume weakness in those without power, influence, wealth. Atilan himself once thought the same, and still struggled with that presumption. But here, he saw a boy barely holding his spear up, who crumpled at the sight of the dead, nod his head and stare into the horrors of the world. And still he chose to face it, not fall, and seek to lend his hand.

  “How are you called?” Atilan asked, helping him to his feet.

  “Nathan,” the man responded.

  “Well Nathan, onwards into darkness,” Atilan said. And light erupted from him and expanded into the hall. It exposed more of the horrors as he walked into the room. He moved fast, glancing back and forth at each of the bodies. There were none here he could assist, none were put together enough to even appear human. When they entered the nave, Atilan saw smoke fluttering across the room. Bodies still littered the floor and some were draped across the gallery above, but they were not nearly as dismembered as in the hall. There was a familiarity here: this was the aftermath of a battle. Yet, still, it was unlike any Atilan had seen. Behind many of the corpses, blood spattered outward in a spray. Reaching the nearest, he found an odd wound. It was like an arrow-hole, but far larger and more mangled, as if something moving very fast struck open a cavity in their chest and came out the other side.

  “Vessel? This one is breathing!” Nathan exclaimed.

  Atilan was a blur, moving fast, High-Strands already ordained forth. He had to be careful. Unlike Totimancy, where the magic itself could heal by its own power, Atilan could only make or unmake organic matter. He could heal, but only that which he understood enough to work upon. The victim was still alive, an older woman, with long curls that draped her face. Like many others, there was a hole through her, by her right shoulder. Her face was twisted in agony, and she was struggling to breath. Atilan met her eyes. She was so very scared. The Strands rested onto her, and he went to work, picturing her shoulder, seeing it whole. He conjured from memory the anatomy of the arm and chest, pictured how it functioned, where the bones connected, how they interlaced. He imagined skin whole and unbroken, and blood moving freely in their veins. Skin stitched together, there was a popping sound, as bones melded, and Atilan heard her gasp.

  He grabbed her, helping her to a seated position. “Water,” Atilan demanded, looking at Nathan. The man grabbed his waterskin, and gave it. Atilan held it to the Pastor’s lips, and said, “Drink.” She listened. Atilan could have ordained water, but Nathan needed something to do, needed to play a part. Atilan handed him back the waterskin. “How do you fare?”

  The woman grimaced, sweat still beading on her forehead. “It still hurts, I can’t quite move it right. It feels like there is something stabbing inside the body.”

  Atilan ran a hand across the healed area, searching. He felt a lump on the arm, where something sharp seemed to prod. He cursed himself. He had moved without thinking, seeking to heal quickly to save her. “I’m sorry, can you be strong for me? Something foul has marked you, and I need to see it to excise it.”

  She nodded. Atilan squeezed her hand, and with his other, drew a knife–the horn was not suited for such a task. He cut open the shoulder, and he felt her stiffen, eyes tearing. She did not scream though, as Atilan widened the cut, and pried apart the skin. He saw something metal glinting from the wound. As much as he wanted to try and pry it out, he was not sure what damage he might inflict from the thing, whether or not it was cursed metal. Instead, a Low-Strand vanished the metal. Gold light healed his incision.

  She began to breathe easier, her face red with pain and exertion. “You are healed. I want to send you to rest, but I need answers. Have you any for me?”

  Eyes closed, the Pastor replied, “I have few, but I will share what I can. A few days prior, after Duhnlaid’s murder, Jehan Vren came to Bishop Marshal, and told him of a plot to capture the Red Wraith. I know not the details, but I know a trap was laid in the old dwarven tunnels. I fear it must have went wrong, for an hour ago I heard screams. I came out, and saw utter pandemonium from the gallery. Children were fleeing, Pastors were trying to lead them away, Inquisitors and guards were fighting but I saw naught what they faced. There were loud bangs that rent the ears, and smoke began to fill the nave, accompanied by a putrid stench of brimstone. I tried to lend aid, I saw one of the Children fall to the ground with a scream. As I went to help, I saw red in the corner of my eye, and then felt a horrid pain in my arm. I blacked out after that, and now I am awakened here, healed by your hand.” She fell against the wall, breathing hard after finishing her story.

  Jehan anticipated this? Atilan’s hands were shaking, but he stayed them still. Slowly, he stood to his feet. “Nathan, find her a bed for rest. Keep searching for survivors. I am going to the tunnels.”

  “Yes Sir. Vessel!” Nathan said, saluting.

  “And if you see others here, put them to work by my name. If they refuse you, acquire their names, and they will deal with my wrath after. Understood?”

  “I am at your command,” Nathan said, gently picking the Pastor from the ground. Behind her, Atilan saw the corpse of the Child she must have tried to help. They were barely older than sixteen, and their chest was blown apart through the ribs. The Pastor was already unconscious, her body would be working overtime to recover from the work he ordained it to, not even accounting for the adrenaline and pain she would have naturally had. He did not think she had seen them on the ground, and hoped she never did.

  As he walked to the tunnel, he saw no more survivors. The Red Wraith had been thorough. It appeared their motive had been altered. No longer did they have a single clean target. Instead, they turned a holy place into a bloodbath. As he passed into ancient tunnels, he felt the wind chilled. Steps echoing, a sight somehow more horrifying etched his vision. He was not even sure he could explain it. It was as if outlines of humans were stained into the air. When he passed a hand through the remains, the air was frigid, like the grips of winter. But nothing physical was present. Not so far ahead, he saw a puddle of ectoplasm on the floor.

  Somehow, Atilan knew the Red Wraith had managed to kill ghosts. Not merely unmake them, or banish them, but truly kill them. In their place, it seemed the ghosts had left their corpses, an impression of an impression, a permanent stain on the world. He summoned his holy flame, struck at them with the might of the Unicorn’s Horn, but they stayed untouched, beyond even the hand of the High Father.

  In the next room, Atilan finally cried. Within, he saw four Inquisitors, lying dead on the ground. He knew one of them: Merilyn Lusamyre. She was older, older than he, and had a grandmotherly look to her. Even in death, she was smiling, her corpse huddled over another younger Inquisitor as if to shield him. She too, bore the gaping wound unlike any he had seen. She had been there the day he had ascended, had been tasked with protecting him. Tears welling in his eyes, he recalled how much he had loathed bodyguards. He knelt before her, and closed her eyes. She looked peaceful in death.

  “I am sorry Merilyn, I wish I had been here in time,” he could barely speak, his throat constricting towards the end. He swallowed his sorry, there would be time to grieve later. Standing, he observed the room, trying to take in as many details as possible. A pyre had burnt down to smolders in the center, and its pungent scent of herbs masked the horrid stench of death and sulfur. The door to the next room had been blasted open much as many of the dead. Ectoplasm streaked the ground.

  Jehan must have thought his specters capable of dealing with the wraith, accompanied by a fist of Inquisitors. He had been wrong. Terribly wrong. More blood wrought into the tongue of Morterran desecrated the room. However, here some of it he recognized, wrote in Thestrian.

  So declares the Black Shepherd

  The red rain writes ruin

  The western wind wallows after

  The black dahlia meets the clematis

  The Twin elves in crimson entwine

  At the end the two dragons decide all

  Atilan knew he was pale as a ghost, and cold as winter. He read and read the words until he burned them into his mind like a brand. The Black Shepherd was a myth, the boogeyman. For countless years, they arose, and caused chaos, spreading evil and leaving destruction in their wake. Vessel after Vessel met their end in search of them, but never were they found. Yet, here, Atilan saw proof they worked once again. This was a Black Omen, the perversion of Sophomancy, a horrid blasphemy. Prophecy was a rare skill amongst Sophomancers, and already considered dangerous work. Telling a Black Omen though, was said to bring into existence the awful future they promised. There was no stopping their predictions.

  And so, it was looking upon the other words scribbled on the ceiling that made Atilan’s heart grow still.

  Our meeting is destined.

  Son of Morterran

  Chosen of the High Father

  Artaghan trembles

  The Broken Land marches.

  A Vessel’s demise is sealed

  Artaghan’s end is nigh

  Your end is nigh.

  Atilan stared at the words for a very long moment. Every single Vessel died an early death. Not a single one met a peaceful end. Most lived only for a few years. The longest of them had lived thirty years after ascending. Atilan had lived nearly twenty as Vessel, far longer than most. He never had imagined himself dying in his sleep. Death did not scare him. But this was different. This was a declaration from an enemy.

  So, this was why he was made Vessel. There was not always one, the High Father chose them in times of conflict, when the world needed guidance. He had wondered if his role had been for the succession war, and had ignored his part to play. Alas, it was not so simple. The Red Wraith and the Black Shepherd, were they one in the same, or allies? Likely they were two separate beings, which only made things more complicated.

  Voices came down the hall, whispering in fright. “Atilan?” he heard Nathan call, worried. With one final look at the two poems, bronze vanished them. Now would not be the time for prophecy to spread. The young man peeked his head in through the door, and Atilan saw relief wash over his face. “You’re alive!”

  “Yes,” Atilan said. For now at least. “Survivors?”

  “Several. They need attention.”

  “Show me,” Atilan demanded, already moving. So much to do, and more kept stacking up. Such was his burden to bear. And he left to go save more lives.