Paleborn - Excerpt

   Sweating and a bit perturbed over their late arrival to greet their visitors, Minda and Altor finally reached their farmhouse, where Erebeth and her entourage were patiently waiting. Minda found them quite a fascinating sight to behold, partly because they rarely received visitors from the city here but also because the group standing in her yard looked utterly alien from what she was used to. One of the guards, a tall, lean man, stood at complete rigid attention with a blank expression painted on his face. His heavy gray military trench coat and hat, both embroidered with the key of Luviel, weathered and worn by usage, further added to the man's imposing presence. The other, a small but broad-shouldered, bald man, in loose and completely bleached clothes, save for the key of Maiél painted on his tunic. He had a large scar across his throat and stood completely still with a serene smile gouging a curved line across his face. He held up a large umbrella shielding the mother midwife from the constant drizzle natural to these lands.

   Minda audibly gasped and held her hand to her mouth when she noticed the sigil of the goddess of death on the small man's clothes, fear evident in her eyes. Altor noted her distress, stepped forward, and was just about to speak when the frail-looking midwife held up a small bony hand and calmly stated:

  “Do not be alarmed, children. A representative of Maiél must always be present at birthing ceremonies in case of stillborn babies and other similar events. It is merely protocol.”

   Then, with a crooked smile and a wink, she said: 

  “But to be candid with you, I bear no fondness of them either. However, he does a fine job shielding me from the ceaseless downpour.”

   The small man just shrugged, his smile never douring.

   Minda visibly relaxed at the midwife’s words and tugged at Altor's arm, pulling him back to her. He grunted but obliged, his eyes still lingering on the silent man.

   Erebeth made a small gesture with her hand, indicating the expecting parents, and said:

  “Now, how about we make proper introductions, hmm?”

   Minda blinked and seemed, only now, to perceive the midwife properly. The tiny woman was clad in thick green and red robes, a large and ornamental sigil of Luviel hanging from her neck in a heavy chain, and her lush and very long hazel hair tied in a simple ponytail. Minda's eyes were irreversibly drawn to the midwife's face, though, for she had the looks of a young woman, perhaps even younger than herself, though she sounded and carried herself like an elderly crone. She was beautiful, not a blotch or wrinkle to speak of, as if Luviel herself had descended from the stars and kissed her skin. She finally looked into the midwife’s eyes and saw the wisdom of a woman who had lived several lifetimes gazing back at her patiently. This brought Minda out of her stupor, and with reverence, she finally said:

  “Yes, of course, mother midwife.” 

  “I am Minda of the Morwen family, and this is my lifemate Altor. We are delighted to see you and have eagerly awaited your arrival.” The joyous spark now returned in Minda's voice and demeanor.

   Erebeth gave a warm smile and replied:

  “Oh child, I should full well know who you are, as I delivered you myself, your proud father unable to sit still throughout the entire seance. On the other hand, your dear mother was as stout and brave a fighter as I have ever known. Maiél, preserve them. Nevertheless, traditions must be upheld and introductions be made.”

She looked up at Altor, eyes pinched as a weak-sighted elderly might do it when scrutinizing something, and finally said:

  “Ah, and Altor, of course, now I remember. The Wood Wardens’ son, how are your folk? Keeping away from the Maven, I hope.” she said with a chuckle, a modest wheeze slipping through the young and full lips, another slight in the mask, betraying the age behind the beautiful face.

  “Mother midwife,” Altor said with acquiescence.

  “Tsk tsk, little Altor, no need to be so stiff around me,” Erebeth lectured the large man.

   She then bowed slightly and continued:

  “I am Erebeth, venerated vivificantum of E’vrain, presently on my second cycle as First accoucheuse of the Rimelands.”

   She extended her arm to the right, indicating the trenchcoat-wearing guardsman.

  “This is my loyal captain of the guards, Doras. He and his guardsmen were provided to me by the Cardinal himself, and they are allegedly supposed to protect me from waylayers and other sorts of trifles. I was told in no uncertain terms that we live in dangerous times, with bandits prowling the wilds and whatnot. Utter nonsense if you ask me. I have traversed my parish for years on end with nothing but my coachman and a nameless one to assist me and have yet to encounter anything more dangerous than the threat of a severe Drench-cough.”

   “Speaking of my coachman, the fine gentleman you see over by the horses is my long-faithful driver through the lands who has accompanied me since he was but a boy. Isn’t that right, Ei’tri?

   “Most certainly, madame,” Ei’tri answered with an aloof but no doubt Fawkian manner.

Minda, who had been too absorbed with the other newcomers, had not spent a single moment scrutinizing the driver as he had kept to himself by the horses, but now, as she genuinely looked at him, he was by far the most curious of the bunch. He wore a classic dusky Fawkian coachman garb with a tophat and black leather boots. However, his narrow face was wholly beardless, and his skin was smooth like a silk moth’s wings and tanned as if having embraced the sun. He had small fangs protruding from his olive-colored lower lip, giving him an oddly feral look that stood in stark contrast to the finery he was wearing. He was seemingly conversing with the large animals as if he could understand their puffs and whinnies. She had no idea what he was, but he reminded her of a group of merchants from Azai she had once seen at the capitol as a child.

   Erebeth leaned in and whispered:

   “He is not one for pleasant conversation or idle chatter, least of all with humans, but he is a loyal companion nonetheless.”

   “But what is he?” Minda replied in hushed tones, instantly feeling embarrassed by her adolescent inquiry.

   “Worry not, my dear. Ei´tri is Aeshar and hails from the north, beyond the crater.”

Minda gasped and blurted:

   “He is Diluvial?”

Ei’tri immediately froze and looked up, staring at Minda with condemning feline topaz eyes.

   “Minda Morwen, you will coil that tongue of yours this instant!” Erebeth scolded her.

   Realizing her poor choice of words and prejudiced tone, Minda looked to her husband for support, but he just stood with his head in his large hand, rubbing his temples. At length, he said:

   “That ever-flowing fountain of a mouth on you, Min-Min. I love you woman, but by Lady Effervescence, you talk faster than you can think.”

   “She meant no offense by it, mother midwife, and she is very sorry for her poor choice of words,” Altor continued while inclining his head towards the coachman, indicating that he was speaking as much to him as he was to Erebeth.

Ei’tri simply nodded and continued his interaction with the horses.

Erebeth contemplated the apology for a short while, then nodded as well and smirked. She looked up at Altor and pointed a thumb at Minda, saying:

   “I take it this isn’t a rare occurrence, considering your snappy apology, eh?”

   Minda was about to protest, as she felt like a child referred to as if not even present, but quickly thought better of it and almost hid herself behind the bulk of her husband in shame.

Altor guffawed and said:

   “You have no idea. Luck stands with her that she is so lovable still.”

   He reached around, gently grabbed Minda, and pulled her beside him to kiss her on the top of her head.

   Minda smiled ever so sweetly at him. She then proceeded to stomp on his foot. She could abide Lady Erebeth patronizing her as she fully comprehended the unintended insult towards the driver and, in part, midwife—however, not her husband—no matter his size or proclivity for being correct.

   Erebeth burst into a cackle, genuinely enjoying the interaction of the young couple. She gave them a moment to settle things and was about to proceed but seemed to have lost track of what she was doing. She then snapped her fingers in remembrance and extended her left arm to indicate the bald man shielding her from the rain.

  “And on my left is the representative of Maiél, one of the nameless, of whom we have already spoken. He does not require nor demand any further introduction.”

   The nameless man bowed his head ever so slightly and winked at the young couple, much to their dismay.

   “With that in order, there remains an important proclamation from the governing body of Ragen to which you must bear witness. Doras, please declare the edict.” Erebeth commanded the tall guardsman.

   Doras saluted and began to fiddle with his jacket when Erebeth held up a hand and stopped him. She had perceptively noticed the unease of the expecting parents and, with a gentle, almost grandmotherly voice, said:

   “Children, once again, I urge you not to be concerned. I assure you, this is just a formality, and you have nothing to fear as long as you have and will remain devout.”

   “Thank you, venerated one,” Altor said with a grim voice, and both he and Minda eased up, their weary smiles returning. Erebeth nodded and calmly said while folding her hands in front of her:

   “Please call me Erebeth. The need for titles is long past us, dear boy. Now Doras, if you will, continue.”

   The tall guard adjusted his weatherbeaten tricorne, reached inside his damp trenchcoat, and pulled forth an ornamented iron depeche that contained a neat silver-colored scroll, of which he pulled off the string holding it together and, with candor, announced:

   “It is hereby recognized by both the Cardinal and the Maven that a crisis of faith is spreading throughout the dominion of Ragen, the Fawkian homelands, in the guise of an insidious epidemic.

This sickness festers in the most innocent and precious to us all, assuming a shape so abominable and incurable that we are forced to take the most extreme of measures. These soulless husks, or Paleborn as they have come to be known, must be purged from existence whenever found. No remedy or alleviation is known to us mortals, only complete and righteous destruction of the empty vessels spawned by the immoral and heretical.

   Should you bear witness to the deliverance or safekeeping of such an abhorrent creature, It is Implored that you do not pursue violent action against these heinous faithless but instead seek out the local clergy, that they may conduct thorough cleansing and redemption upon them.

   Help thy neighbor and help thyself by adhering to this proclamation, and may the favor of the Outer Nine ever shine down upon you.”

   Minda, taken aback at the very orthodox and, quite frankly, zealous decree, was left with even more questions than before. However, she did not have a chance to voice them as Erebeth unfolded her hands and gestured towards the main house, saying:

   “I think we have tarried far too long out here in the downpour. How about you show me your lovely house, child? I yearn to slake my curiosity on whether or not the place has changed since I helped bring you into this world.”

Erebeth held out her arm, and Minda, longing to be out of the rain as well, gladly took it, and together they walked into the house, the nameless one of Maiél silently tailing them. 

   As the women walked away, Altor couldn’t help but smile to himself as he heard Erebeth castigating Minda for working the fields while she was this close to term. However, his smile was somewhat strained and waned quickly after they disappeared. It had not gone unnoticed by him that all the guards carried Phages hanging from their belts. Guards carrying weapons were by no means a strange sight. Yet, Phages were heavily ornamented ritualistic weapons granted to only the most devoted Templars of the Luviite order and used explicitly as holy weapons to painfully and violently purge the unclean and faithless. He knew this only because his two mothers both had been anointed templars within the order, who had abandoned their highly regarded positions when their love for each other had outgrown the zeal demanded by the clergy. This knowledge and the highly radical proclamation had left Altor with a sinking feeling. It was fast becoming a very precarious situation. What were these Paleborn? Who would be the judge of their existence? And why would their birth require a whole cadre of Templars? Altor had too many questions, and they were itching like bug bites to be answered. He was by no means scholarly educated in the art of investigation, but he had always been very contemplative and raised to spot even the most minute details. Therefore, he had also noted how much on edge the other guards were despite the assumed stoicism of their relatively young and almost comically rigid captain. They were mentally prepared for a fight, which manifested in physical forms like the constant need to ensure their Phages were unlocked from their riding safety, allowing them an easy draw if it came to violence. Adding this to a lot of clenched jaws and hard eyes had cemented Altor's unease and suspicion that something was profoundly wrong. He couldn’t shake the ominous feeling, and his thoughts had now agitated him to such a degree that he needed to get some actual clarification. His left hand unconsciously reached for the dagger strapped to his belt, where he gently caressed the finely crafted silver pommel as he confidently walked toward the group of guards unloading the carriage.

As Altor neared, it became evident that these men were not simple sentries. They all wore holy symbols around their necks, and underneath the trenchcoats, he spotted the collars of viridian-colored chain shirts worn only by Luviite Templars. Doras stepped forward from among the group and, with quick steps, intercepted Altor halfway and mechanically saluted him. Altor had one last thing to check to ensure his suspicions were correct. He looked Doras dead straight into his left eye. It wasn’t there. There was no mark. Doras, seeming slightly disturbed by being stared directly into his face, cleared his throat and said:

   “Well met, Mr. Morwen. I appreciate you coming over, as I was hoping to speak with you regarding housing. Are we to camp out here, or do you have quarters available? If so, can you please show me?”

Altor was having none of it. Doras had to be some sort of straw man or proxy. So, never slowing his stride, he rebuffed:

   “Why, of course, captain, we have plenty of housing available, but let me just help your underlings with the baggage, and then I’ll show you.” Altor immediately noticed one of the guards wince at that degrading comment.

   “There is no need for that, Mr. Morwen. They are fully capable of that themselves,” Doras exclaimed strenuously.

   “Bah, you’re coming all this way to aid my family. The least I can do is assist you with something as trivial as this.”

Doras almost skipped, trying to reach Altor before he made it to the other guards, but it was too late.

   “Hail watchers! How about I help you unload this luggage and show you to your quarters? Then I’ll heat some of Minda's best stew afterward.” Though only a few looked up, hunger evident in their eyes, it was enough for Altor. He had seen what he needed. Both his mothers had a telltale tattoo of the key of Luviel in their left eye, circling their iris, which was required for being inducted into the order. The mark served two distinct purposes, primarily so their station could be recognized and not easily imitated. Alternately, it was used as a clandestine conduit for the First Templar to scry through the eyes of his subordinates or even control them if need be.

Every guard who looked up at him carried the very same mark.

Doras, in frantic motion, grabbed Altor’s shoulder, tried to turn him around, then, in nervous tones, uttered:

   “Mr. Morwen, if you please, they are quite capable of handling..”

He didn’t manage to speak any further, as Altor had, in one swift motion, unsheathed his dagger and pressed it to Doras’ throat. Through gritted teeth, he said:

   “Why have you brought templars to my home? This is but a birthing ceremony. Nothing more.

   “W-wh-what do you mean, Mr. Morwen? I have no idea of what you speak,” Doras stuttered.

Altor pressed the dagger further into Doras’ throat, drawing a fine line of blood. He prayed his assumptions of the guard captain were correct, as it was considered absolute heresy to spill the blood of Templars, punishable by immediate execution.

   “Enough!” came the yell from behind Altor. He peered over his shoulder, never releasing the pressure on Doras’ jugular. A gruff-looking man, old enough to be his grandfather, was staring daggers into Altor, then, with a slow cadence, addressed both Doras and Altor:

   “Mr. Morwen is quite clearly far more perceptive than we accredited him for. Now, will you please unhand our Clarion? He is of no threat to you.”

   “I guessed as much, Templar, but what of you?”

   “Only if you keep at it, boy,” the old Templar flatly stated, the promise of death thick in his words.

Altor let Doras go and sheathed his dagger. What could he do? An entire cadre of Luviite Templars equipped with divine weapons against a, albeit well-trained, ranger-turned-farmer. There was no contest. However, he was still fuming with anger over the deception and growled:

   “Explain. Now. Or consider yourselves banished from these lands.”

That brought a mild chuckle from the old man. His hard eyes turned soft in an instant.

   “I take it a forthright reassurance that all is well won’t do this time?” Altor just stared at the old Templar, still fuming. The Templar, obviously recognizing the farmers’ distress, held up his hands in a pacifying manner and continued:

   “All right, kiddo, tell you what. I’ll fill you in on the details, but you keep your mouth shut until we leave again. No flapping of your lips to that sweet wife of yours. She has enough to worry about as is. Agreed?

Altor mulled it over. He never kept secrets from Minda, and she was his lifemate. But he had to agree with the Templar. There was enough on her plate for now.

   “Agreed,” Altor said at length.

   “Well enough.” Said the templar. “Introductions first. I am Seneschal Kyron, and these fine men are my responsibility. Due to the nature of our work, I hope you respect their wish to remain strangers?”

   “Of course.”

   “Good.” said Kyron and then continued, “While it remains true that the roadsides have become far more dangerous to traverse these past years, it would seem quite excessive having an entire squad of Luviite Templars to protect you from common bandits, even if you are someone as venerated as the Lady Vivificantem. However, since the nascence of the Paleborn calamity, an unsettling number of accoucheuses and Maiél’s Nameless Ones have been brutally murdered, trying only to fulfill their honored calling. Now, I am also a modestly observant individual, and I couldn’t help but overhear Lady Erebeth saying you were the son of the Woodwardens.”

   “Aye.” Grunted Altor.

   “The wardens of the Gran Oscura Verdante?”

   “Mhmm. Your point being?” Altor said though he had a distinct feeling where this was going.

Kyron raised a thick, bushy eyebrow at that, then said

   “My point being, son, that I know your folk quite well, and it was I myself who taught Reeva and Quendel the move you so finely demonstrated on Doras. That being said, knowing that your parents are my old pupils, I surmise that you know Templars don’t get called upon unless absolutely necessary.”

Genuinely surprised that the old warrior was actually the mentor of his parents, Altor didn’t let it deter him from getting the entire truth of the Templars’ presence here.

   “I fully understand, old man, and though you might be the revered battle master of my parents, it does nothing to explain the furtiveness with which you concealed your arrival here. Also, it seems highly irregular for a cadre of Templars to do what a squad of decent guards could.”

Kyron seemed almost proud of the farmers' ability to deduce the complexity of the situation and said:

   “You may hide your intellect and eloquence behind that farmer’s garb, Altor, but believe me, there is the potential of an Enquester forsaken in you. So allow me to clarify. 

Kyron cleared his throat and thus began explaining.

   “As you most likely gathered from the governmental proclamation, our proud nation is faced with a scourge of unprecedented severity. Birth rates have been plummeting for several cycles, most likely attributed to a decline in faith, and now the arrival of these Paleborn aberrations spawned by foul anathema, leaving a wake of destruction behind them.

   “You mean to say that small, helpless, and, according to you, soulless infants are carelessly murdering full-grown adult human beings?” Altor cut in with incredulity.

Kyron sighed, chewed his lower lip while pondering the question, and then rebutted with a question of his own:

   “This might be a stretch, but are you at all familiar with curses, such as the Hex Malent? I believe they are more commonly referred to as a Childe of Rh’vaas.”

   That struck a chord with Altor, as he had indeed heard tales about such curses before, told to him by none other than the mysterious Maven herself when he was but a boy. After contemplating the similarities, he answered:

   “I am. However, a Child of Rh’vaas is extremely rare as the carriers rarely come to term since they usually succumb to its malevolence prior to the birth. At least, so I am told.

   “You are much correct, son, though I dare not guess by whom you have been told such awful truths. Now consider that a Hex Malent is born of the gods' ire. The Paleborn are brought forth by means of atheistic negligence and perversion of faith, which means they are vessels of nothingness, making no notion of themselves until birthed, usually through gutbirth. However, What emerges, by The Mozaic, is too abominable to put into words. To speak frankly, all I can say is that it is deadly and requires the full might of the order to dispose of.

Altor sighed; this seemed too zealous and superstitious, even for a devout man. After a stretch of silence, he finally said:

   “So, in earnest, what you’re saying is that every single midwife in Ragen has a contingent of Templars serving as bodyguards to help them slaughter some horrifying creature birthed by completely ordinary and innocent women? What about the midwives? Are they aware of your presence? Does Lady Erebeth even know you are here, ready to strike at a moment's notice?

Kyron smiled and answered:

   “As I said, a most decent Enquester lost in you. But to answer your questions, yes, we are here to put down monsters birthed by ordinary women, though innocent they are not, as something so vile could only be birthed by unclean heretics. No, the honored accoucheuses of Ragen are not aware of our presence, as it would only complicate matters. However, I am relatively sure that Lady Erebeth has caught wind. She is quite a clever and wise woman, most favored by Luviel, hence evident in her longevity.

   Altor was thoroughly perplexed. He had gotten the answers he wanted, but it had done nothing to alleviate his troubled mind. His questions had just metamorphosed into a bottomless pit of anxiety and fear. What if Minda gave birth to such an unholy being, but how could she? She and Altor were wholly devout in their worship, virtuously praying to all of The Outer Nine. Before he could manifest even more fears, a gauntletted hand clasped him by the shoulder, and Kyron reassured him, saying:

   “As Lady Erebeth said, boy, worry not about this; our presence here is but a precaution, and considering your parents and the reputation of the Morwen clan, I am sure you will be holding a sweet, healthy baby in your arms before you know it.”

This calmed Altor a bit and ejected him from his downward-spiraling dystopian thoughts. He lifted his head, looked Kyron in the eyes, and said:

   “Thank you, Kyron, for your plainspoken words and consolation both.”

   “Think nothing of it, son,” Kyron said with pathos. “Now, if memory serves me, I seem to recall you offering help unloading our gear.

Altor smiled genuinely and said:

    “Damn right, old man.” They laughed heartily, and Altor helped unload the hearse and showed the Templars their quarters, promising to return later with some heated stew.

   Afterward, he had a reconciling talk with Ei’tri, reassuring him of the innocence of the foul comment his wife had accidentally made. Together, they brought in the horses from the cold drizzle and offered them some fresh and nutritious dew hay.

   As Altor prepared to head inside to join his wife and Erebeth, he felt a warm, familiar pulse washing over him from above, followed by a hazy scarlet radiance enveloping his surroundings and saturating everything in a deep crimson glow. Squinting against the strange light, he curiously peered up at the blood-red scarred moon from whence the luminescence came, its piercing rays stabbing through the heavy clouds, immediately followed by the full cosmic body of San’ari, forcing her way out from behind the dense veil. Altor blinked at the ruby light, not quite believing what he saw. It was such a rare occurrence for one of the moons to actually show itself in most any part of Ragen, with the ever-gray blanket of clouds embracing the nation's entirety. Yet here she was in full splendor, the goddess of sacrifice herself, she who craves eternally. Altor, sorely in need of a good omen in light of the scuffle with the Templars and their revelations, in addition to being raised by two ex-templars, thus pious as he was practical, unsheathed his large shearing dagger and cut a deep line on top of a fresh scar in the furrow of his palm. Nearly all Fawkians of his generation bore the same scar, as offering a part of yourself was a customary ritualistic practice whenever praying to San’ari. Since she was the currently present deity of The Outer Nine, she was also the recipient of most prayers. She would remain so for the next 43 years, at which time she would recede, and Ravain, the god of darkness, would approach, ushering in the next lunar cycle. Altor was secretly, albeit shamefully, glad he most likely wouldn’t live to witness the smothering blackness of Ravain’s celestial smooth blot of a body, for though he is known as “The one who shelters,” he is far more commonly referred to as the “Prince of Perversion.” Considering the reverence with which most Fawkians worshiped the gods and the disturbing rumors of ritualistic mass sacrifices held in San’ari’s name, Altor needed no encouragement to imagine a cycle of darkness befalling his homeland and what twisted ceremonies it would birth. Shaking off his drifting thoughts, Altor clenched his throbbing left palm, knelt down in the moist soil, and gently placed his bleeding hand on the ground, moving it in a circular motion until he had painted a complete crimson orb with his blood, serving as a representation of the moon above him. Then, bowing his head so that it almost touched the reddened soil, he closed his eyes and whispered:

Our Lady of Oblation

I give thee thanks for the warmth of your presence

And let my essence spill forth in your name

That I may receive thy blessing in whatever shape you deem worthy of this sacrifice

May thy craving be stilled, if only for a moment

My scars are carved, ever and solely for you

San’ari, layeth thy judgment on me, oh heavenly one

Altor opened his eyes wide, stared into the crass blob of his own blood, and finished the canticle with a final utterance:

I see only red.