Spawn of Seron - Part 2 Exclusive fantasy fiction for Steemit!

Prologue

Part 1

Spawn of Seron - Part 2

Two small figures, one just over sixteen summers old and the other barely thirteen, drifted through the crowd, not able to choose their own course. Holding hands saved them from being separated for the time being.

Valens hated feeling powerless. He hadn’t known how much he hated the feeling until recently, until he got a taste of power. Nothing else in the world compared to channeling, magic of the dead Gods coursing through his veins. But he was empty now, completely devoid of power, so he just gritted his teeth and let the human current carry them.

The crowd gathered around the Palace of the Unforgiven collectively shrieked, their voices mixed together, forming a tone you’d expect to hear from a bloodthirsty mob. And yet it was just a gathering of the most devoted followers of the late god of the city. No less than three hundred people, unwilling to give up their beliefs.

The surge of agitation meant that the first two unlucky bastards had already gotten strung up. The wooden gallows, erected a day prior in front of the main entrance creaked from the weight of bodies, confirming Valens’s guess. He couldn’t see the executed clearly, the people in front of him were too tall, so he glanced at Tulley, a question in his eyes.

‘It’s not them, I’m sure,’ said Tulley, shaking his head. ‘They were at the very end of the line when I saw them.’

Valens nodded, relieved. As a rule he didn’t care about executions, but today was different. If Tulley’s eyes hadn’t deceived him, and they usually didn’t, the only other publicly known channeler in the city was about to be put to death.

‘Today we cast down these wretches in the name of Seron, the Unforgiven.’ said an elderly man, who stood on the gallows platform, dangerously close to the hanged criminals. ‘Today all our outward enemies are slain, so we peer inside our sacred city to eradicate the filth that has taken root. Today we show Seron that we are his earnest disciples even in his absence!’ The man wore a pristine blood red tunic with a high collar, had short white hair and generally looked less ragged than anyone in a mile radius around him.

‘Watch closely Tull, this is how a priest of Seron looks like. And a wealthy one at that,’ whispered Valens. ‘Probably a highpriest, like Father Kormac used to be.’

It was no surprise to Valens that people of Salderra were more excited today than any other time of the year. Eleventh day of summer, traditionally known as the Day of the Weak. And yet the priest avoided using the name in his speech, none of them ever did anymore. Not since Seron had been killed during this ceremony exactly seven years ago. What a cruel joke of fate, Valens chuckled to himself. You hang your worst enemies on the same day for hundreds of years and then it comes back to you on the same date.

The duo reached a small clearing just in time to see the dead criminals hauled into a pile like fallen leaves and a new set of nooses readied. The gallows were just a few feet away now, a position not usually allowed for children, but the onlookers were too engaged in the happenings on the stage to care. Valens studied the next two poor souls who were dragged up to the wooden platform by their leashes. A man and a woman this time.

‘Gaze upon the heretics that have lived among you for years,’ went on the old priest. ‘The Divine Inquisition keeps its eye on everybody, low or high born, you will be brought to justice for the crimes you have committed.’ A considerable portion of the crowd shuffled nervously.

First thing different about the next two people in line for the hanging was that they were blinded with hot irons, their faces a mess of burned and scarred tissue. They were no doubt tortured extensively and either didn’t break, or told a good enough story to earn the relief from pain. A relief of execution that is. What stood out to Valens even more though, was the fact that neither of them were hunched over like so many criminals before them, they stood tall, their unseeing eyes pointed at the sky.

‘You were right, Tulley,’ said Valens, a knot in his throat. Why did he feel bad for these people all of a sudden? ‘These are lady and lord Dorraine. No doubt about it.’

Tulley tightened his grip on his friends hand. ‘Are you sure he is, you know.. Your father?’ He didn’t look Valens in the eyes as he asked the question.

‘No way to find out now. Mother never admitted it, but who else could it be? Channeling is tied to one’s blood, so the fact I inherited it all but confirms it. I am his bastard.’

‘It could be worse, I never knew either of my parents,’ said Tulley.

‘At least you can’t know for sure that your parents didn’t want you. Maybe they died, maybe they were too poor to give you a decent life, so giving you to the church seemed like a good idea to them,’ said Valens. ‘But I know for sure that my mother didn’t want me and my father hated me for just being born. Didn’t think I would ever say it, but Larrion actually favors you more than me Tull.’

Tulley smirked. ‘Oh yeah? I’m not the one shooting lightning out of my hands. God of luck must have great plans for you, oh great Spawn of Seron. I would trade places with you any day, you know?’

Valens shooshed him and unwillingly brought his gaze back to the execution.

His father, Richard Dorraine and his second wife already had hangman’s knots on their necks. Lady Dorraine’s calm facade finally shattered as tears ran down her disfigured face, she let out a sob and said something that Valens’s ears couldn’t catch at the distance. Whatever it was, Richard Dorraine didn’t get to answer. The lever was pulled and the wooden panel they stood on folded under their feet.

The rope does not concern itself with our trifle words or tears, it simply tightens and it simply bites into the flesh.

The crowd cheered, convinced it had to be the cause of all their troubles hoisted by the neck. Satisfied with his work, the priest in red robes beamed at the audience, like a musician, after a particularly masterful crescendo.

The woman lived longer, her legs kicked out repeatedly at the non-existent enemy. She clutched at her vain life with surprising ferocity, her face turned red with blood, fingers tattered to bloody shreds from the useless attempts to loosen the unyielding rope.

Meanwhile Lord Dorraine was already immobile. He died as stoically as he lived, his broken face frozen forever in a scowl. Valens wondered in these seconds whether the old channeler had really been mad like the rumors suggested.
Just like that the only relative Valens had was gone. It felt surprisingly empty. Valens took a good last look at the face of the motionless man. The noise of the crowd subsided, the empty air forced him out of his stupor.

Aware of his surroundings once again he pulled Tulley back between the sweaty bodies of salderrans. Just like all the convicts before them lord and lady Dorraine's bodies were tossed into a pile, to be burned later. Lady of Death is the greatest equalizer after all. The boys didn’t stay to see the pyre, they needed to be elsewhere.

With the majority of citizens out of the streets for the moment, Valens and Tulley were able to see Salderra clearly. Since the butchery that had abolished the rulers of the Six Cities, the desert city lost its identity. Tall yellow towers and vast open plazas suggested of a rich cultural heritage, while the tiny sandstone buildings in between and waste that cluttered pretty mosaic cobblestone confessed the state of degradation and poverty that befell the area in recent years. The hot and dry desert air suffocated the inhabitants of the surface. Thirsty and irritated guardsmen tasked with regulating the crowds clutched their weapons anxiously. Valens felt bad for them, some still had light skin, most likely the Inquisition that ruled the city these days hired men from further up north. These foreigners would feel the heat worse than any of the natives and their skin would be the first to suffer. Those red and brown uniforms they wore, were designed to stop a light sword stroke but not for hours of patrolling in the utter hell that was midday in Salderra.

Evidently, the Inquisition anticipated riots that were known to happen on the close of the Day of the Weak. Valens didn’t have any love for the Inquisition but he was glad that the city was finally back to a semblance of order. Some stragglers could still be seen, moving towards the city center in small groups, covered in dull red or grey robes, the only measure of protection from the daunting heat. Some of them held ornamental daggers in their outstretched tan skinned hands, pointed towards the clear blue sky in respect to Seron, the Unforgiven. What else but an angry god could force its followers out of their cool settlements into the scorching sun?

They walked in the opposite direction from everybody else, Valens chose the path carefully, hoping to avoid the stern gazes of the guards. The last thing he needed right now was to get questioned by the militia. Throat dry and stomach empty, they soldiered on towards their destination.