"Wicked are the ways of the fallen.
Riders of ill omens and devastation.
Harlots of misery, breeders of dissent, seeders of darkness.
*
"Wicked are the ways of the heretic.
Withered hearts and blackened souls.
Betrayers of divinity, egregious in their depravity.
*
"Wicked are the ways of the false idols.
Propagators of plagues and disease.
Bestowers of famine and drought.
Couriers of nightmares-"
The grand templar paced leisurely across the stage. Hands clasped behind his back, chest and chin held high.
"- and wicked are their ways." His voice was robust in the pale walls of the great hall. Filling the room in its enthralling cadence. He was well practiced in his sermons.
"Wicked are their ways." The crowd repeated in calm affirmation.
Then there was a pause. Breaths were held, some shaky, others– those more practiced in their technique– held their steady rhythm.
The brief silence crashed down upon the crowd.
"Wicked are the ways of the Wretched Undying.
Scourge of Destruction and Commander of Damnation.
The brandisher of Blood Iron.
Rot is the honey, spoiled in its pots.
Unclean is the flesh, infected with insidiousness.
Evil bewitches the soul, and infants wither in their wombs.
Tainted is the land and its people…
…and wicked becomes the world in their wake."
A chill filled the air. Light gasps could be heard here and there, the rustle of clothing, elsewhere a stifled cough.
"Wicked are the ways Wretched Undying."
There was a pulling hesitancy, and the crowd repeated in uneasy cohesion, "Wicked are the ways."
He came back to the podium. Sharp cheeked and highbrowed, his face set in a constant look of judgment.
The crowd watched him with wide eyes. Some ringed in fear, stinking up the room with sweating pits. Others remained neutral, drawn in devout determination. And a few among them swirled with malice. Wishers of revenge and thrill seekers.
The remainder of the ancient poem was left unspoken. It was not time yet.
The grand templar let the room still before he continued, "Illowen has fallen. Burnt to the ground in the early dawn of yesterday. We are still counting the number of our murdered brethren." Small whispers picked up, but died down quickly as he cleared his throat. "As you all may know, Illowen was used to hold high profile criminals and enemies for research purposes. It was confirmed to me this morning that the Undying was among them. She used her corruption to infect the facility and destroy it."
This time the gasps and whispers were less quiet as they buzzed throughout the hall.
"Silence!" He raised a hand and slowly squeezed it into a fist, cutting out the sound as it curled. "As of today we are moving to six days of training and two extra hours each day." His fist still outheld, no one dared to even groan. "Testing will begin to determine your temples and squads. Dispatched squads are being called home. They will be joining you at your assigned temples to hone their skills and help guide you. Together you will recapture the Illowen escapees as part of your training for Great Retribution and the challenges it will bring.
"We enter dangerous times, but fear not my brethren, the return of the Undying coincides with the return of Eeno. For now he remains hidden among our ranks, but in time he will make himself known to us. And he will lead us in our divine right and make the land clean and fertile and provide plenty unto all those who seek his graces." An excited mummer filled the air that he did not silence. Instead he let them grow a little noisier in their thrill.
.
One of them could be Eeno. Yea right. Syaran scoffed, leaned against a wall in the back, wishing there was a dark corner to hide in. The hall was obnoxiously white. Everything the Eenoans built was. The color of purity.
He'd cut his fucking feet off if Eeno was actually reborn into their ranks. The provinces were goddead lands and he did not think their overpowered narcissistic founder was an exception.
The grand templar's words were pretty but Syaran didn't believe a lick of it. Just manipulative swill good for boosting the morale of young soldiers walking into a war.
He zoned out for the rest of the speech.
He didn't join the priests of Eeno to be a brainless devotee. He found it beneath him to worship some faceless being more cruel than kind. It repulsed him to think of himself like those who begged and groveled in prayers only ever met with silence.
One shaped his own reality, nurtured his own power, created his own gods to live in service to him.
Syaran was evellian at heart and only wished to slay monsters. The ruthless 'divine mission' of the Eenoans was the perfect reason to lawfully hunt down his enemies.
He rolled a lip and added a cigarette to his list of wishes. If he slipped out the side door would anyone see him?
He took three side steps towards the exit. It was cracked open just enough for him to slip though. The grand templar's gaze paused on him.
Guess so. Syaran settled back against the wall with a huff. He'd already been partaking in extra training. Working well into the nights, breath exercises split intervals of weight lifting and combat exercises. His body was sore from pushing himself yesterday and he wanted to get more sleep. But the grand templar liked to listen to himself talk too much and the chatty bastard had other plans. At the end of his sermon, he initiated immediate training and the bleary eyed Syaran was herded onto the training ground with all of the other recruits. Three hours before their normal training time.
But that was alright. He'd sleep tonight. For now his blood would pump and sinew would swell, and he would grow. Syaran would become everything he needed to be in order to accomplish his goals. Even if it meant dredging through the mud and heat with pigs and ants, eating scripture like he lived for it, and sitting prim and proper in pews as if he wasn't a killing machine.
He smiled to sky, sweat beaded across his brow as the first rays of sunlight heated his face.
***
END of Book 1