Genesis of the Lightbringer
24
OCT/20
She fought with ferocity unparalleled, calling out to her dead god to strengthen her sword arm as the wicked steel blade sliced through the undead hordes that surrounded her. The evil creatures focused on her with rapt, single-minded attention; beings of pure malice drawn to one of goodness, like moths to a candle’s flame. Though her countenance was stoic and determined, there was a weariness there as well. Fitted securely over her brow was a mask of sheer willpower, the visage of one who had been fighting for an impossibly long time and bolstered by the knowledge that, should she falter for even an instance, these teeming hordes would promptly overwhelm her. And so she fought on with the strength of one with everything on the line. Thankfully she was also encased in a suit of steel armor, and on the few occasions where the undead beasts could find a gap in her defenses, the dense plates absorbed the worst of the blows. Still, it was clear that she could not continue fighting for much longer, and her eyes lit up when she realized that help had finally arrived.
Oni wasted no time moving into position beside the armored warrior, launching bolts of searing radiant energy into the swarming masses of clambering undead. As the blasts of energy burned through them, two of the ghouls were immediately dissembled into a cloud of ash, their lingering screams – a mixture of frustration of being denied their mortal feast and joy at being finally released from the curse of undeath – hung around in the air for a long moment as the battle raged on. Mar’iya had seen Oni channel the power of sun before in their months together, but somehow the radiance seemed to now take on another facet – was it stronger? Brighter? The light now seemed to burn with a more luminous persistence, taking on the vibrant hues of a dramatic sunrise. Was it a side effect of the strange magic of this place; his imagination; or was it something more? There was no time to ponder such things now, however…
Mar’iya harried a group of the screaming wraiths and ghouls with a storm of psychic energy from the relative safety of the doorway, while Sora and David burst past him into the room taking position at the front of the line. Sora was always up on the front lines of every fight, she was a fearless weapon constructed of pure rage – a rage that was now accentuated by the magical sword she wielded – the blade stoking her appetite for battle. The sword Enduval thirsted for blood and did not care where it got its sustenance, drinking deeply from friend or foe alike, and tearing into any unfortunate that had the ill luck of getting within reach of its razor-sharp bite.
David took position near Sora, battling the undead on the frontlines as well. His bravery in moving into the fray like he did always astounded Mar’iya. He liked to think that he and the Gardiward house mage were of a similar mind, as they held many powers in common, but there was clearly something more to the young Psion. It was more than his fealty to the fiery dragonborn or a fatalistic foolishness that moved him into the thick of the fighting time after time. The fact was that David was a very formidable fighter, blocking repeated attacks with his wooden shield with superb skill, while lashing out with his powerful psionic mindblade whenever an enemy presented a weakness. Mar’iya always kept a running tally on those he met, making note of their strengths and weaknesses should he need to engage them in combat – a deeply ingrained habit from his previous life as a Templar in Balic, he presumed. He would have to reassess his previous analysis of the young Psion though, he realized: powerful mental attacks and defenses, and very competent in melee as well. His comprehensive list of David’s perceived weaknesses was shrinking rapidly.
Naga took position beside Mar’iya and launched crackling bolts of eldritch energy into the masses of undead, and still finding the time to send healing magic towards the unknown woman in the metal armor. Despite the fact that the young elf’s gifts clearly came from the Dark Mistress, it was not lost on Mar’iya that they would not have made it as far as they had without Naga’s magical prowess. Mar’iya had sensed Oni’s unease with the young man; could a person being fed their power by Tiamat Herself be trusted not to turn on them when the time came to betray his Patron? Were Oni’s suspicions correct, that there was a good chance that the Dark Goddess could see and hear through the eyes and ears of the young elf? And if so, could this somehow be used against Her? Was there a way to ply him with lies and half-truths in an effort to buy them some time to do what needed to be done? Even if Tiamat was watching them through her servant there was little they could do about it anyway, as they would not have gotten as far as they had without his combat and healing capabilities, so this issue would have to wait.
Mar’iya blasted another of the ghouls with a mental burst of energy, relishing in the beast’s confused and pained cries, but he found himself caring more about the armored woman than the undead monstrosities. How had she come here, wielding such a weapon and wearing steel armor the likes of which Mar’iya had only ever seen upon the back of the mighty Thir-King himself? This armor was a priceless artifact of a forgotten era – wars would have been waged over one shiny steel pauldron, much less an entire suit of the precious metal. And seeing such a treasure here, worn by the spitting image of the serving girl Arnia nonetheless…what did it all mean? There was a curious magic to this pyramid – powerful and chaotic – but this warrior maiden seemed all too real to be an illusion. Questions within questions, and Mar’iya doubted they would receive a satisfying answer to any of them anytime soon.
This warrior version of Arnia cried out to the “Holy Lathander” as she attacked the malevolent wraith that materialized next to her, its eyes burning with an unholy hunger for living flesh. Mar’iya ran that name through his head. “Lathander? Lathander?” There was a tickle of a remembrance there, like the seed of a memory that had yet to sprout roots. That symbol on her breastplate, too – stylized roads heading to a rising or setting sun; that too hinted at an itch of recollection, one begging to be scratched. It took him a moment but at last he realized where he had seen it before: in the library of the blasphemer Artellius of House Quintus, the poor man’s name came charging into his memory. He remembered little about the haughty Patrician – he had hardly put up a fight when they came for him – but he did remember the library of forbidden lore that the man had kept in a secret room beneath his manor house: hundreds of tomes, many predating the ascension of the Dragon Queen; priceless artifacts to a dead age.
He had flipped through a few of the books surreptitiously as the other Templars dragged the limp form of the aged nobleman out of the room He had even been tempted to try to secret away a few of the tomes; the knowledge they must contain! But he knew that to do so would undoubtedly mean his death. He had been drawn to one book in particular; a battered leather tome that looked, from its well-worn spine, like it had been read hundreds of times. He could not recall the exact title of the book, only that it purported to detail the various gods and religious practices of ancient Faerun. How could such a book like this even exist? He poured over the pages, trying to burn the images and words into his waking mind so that he could revisit them later, in a quieter, safer moment. He remembered at the time that he had been shocked to see that Tiamat’s name was not listed among those pages – how could a book about the Gods not contain information about the sole and supreme Goddess? He flipped through it several times to make sure that her august name was not in there. There were so many others listed there, however. There were gods of war, and of storms, of nature and water and life, and of death and the afterlife, even of elves and halflings. They had their own Pantheon, too? That seemed improbable. The Psalm of the Dark Queen had spoken of Tiamat’s subjugation over the weak gods that had ruled Faerun before She had arrived, but her Dark Priests had also taught that Tiamat had always ruled over the world, creating it out of the nothingness with the mighty breath weapons of each of her five heads. That was the creation story that Vashir had adhered to, and in that light this book had seemed too fanciful; a work of dangerous and profane fiction. Why would someone risk a horrible, painful death to write or possess such a sacrilegious work of fantasy? That question had eaten away at Vashir for a long time.
That book had joined the hundred others in constructing the funeral pyre that poor Artellius had been conflagrated upon in the Balic town square. As a Templar, Vashir and the other hunters had taken position in the front row of the spectacle, circled around the bonfire; standing stoic and stern, their red cloaks hanging still. When the ravenous flames had first began to nibble upon the kindling of his flesh, Artellius had cried out defiantly, “It is Dawn, O seeker of light, I shall say a prayer to the Light,” he cried, staring up at the sky. He then he had seemed to stare directly at Vashir as he continued, “Her Reign of terror shall not last forever, a new sun is rising in the East, and His name is Lathander, the Morninglord. The Lightbringer will cast away the darkness – do not fear! As I do not fear in these final moments!” As the biblio-pyre grew in strength and intensity, the flames quickly consumed the man with their ravenous hunger, and his screams of defiance morphed into cries agony. And then finally, silence; the only sounds were the pops and crackles of the flames as they continued feasting upon flesh and tome with singular focus.
That memory had stayed with Vashir for a long time. He wasn’t overly concerned with Artellius – Vashir had borne witness to many such deaths in service to the Thir-King – but rather with the loss of the knowledge those forbidden tomes had contained. But standing here now in the heart of this pyramid, watching steel clad Arnia cry out for the Morninglord to strengthen her sword arm, Artellius’ final proclamation seemed so much more portentous. Lightbringer. That name raced forward in Mar’iya’s mind, as if it were there all along, hidden deep in shadow and only just now seeing the light of the sun for the first time. He watched in awe as Oni blasted another of the floating wraiths with blasts of his divine light, and he looked at his companion with newfound respect. Lightbringer…