Viktor

  The chambers beneath the Cathedral of Radiance were vast and solemn, carved directly into the eternally unyielding stone of the mountain, along with a labyrinth of passages. Ancient runes glowed faintly on the walls of the corridors, their blue light casting shifting shadows across the smooth walls and floor. Everything here was cut out of obsidian. The ancient Pontiff who commissioned this cathedral and made it a reality had the respect of all of the Principality.

  The air was heavy with the scent of myrrh and sanctity, as though the prayers of centuries had seeped into the very stone. In the center of the labyrinth was a chamber, bare of amenities but for a large torus-shaped table of polished obsidian that stood as the locus of power for the Order of the Judges. Around it sat six figures with long blonde hair of different shades, each wearing long dark blue coats with golden sigils of light shining through their materials.

  Viktor stepped through the opening in the table to kneel in the center of the gathering.

  “Elite Judge, Viktor,” The Cardinal, Vandr, the wolf of the hunt, spoke in an ominously deep voice. “You return to us from Alvion. We sent you yonder, with horses and pearls, with the taste of wine and honey on your lips, and your saddle bags filled with enough wheat and meat.” The Cardinal waved a hand and the obsidian floor beneath his boots moved like sand. It pushed upwards, surrounding him, and pinning him in place, pushing up his chin so he could look into the dark-blue swirling abyss that were the eyes of the Cardinal — an effect of the ambrosia they had all partaken of.

  Viktor’s eyes hardened, glaring at his superior. There were going to be consequences for this treatment!

  The wolf was young for his status, one of the youngest Cardinals at only forty years of age. He looked like he was still in his twenties. Young and vibrant with long blonde hair, a chiseled jawline and a face set in a sneer. Which made him all the more dominating. His contemporaries were already turning white in the hair and their skins had begun to sag.

  “Yet!” Vandr snapped. “You contaminate my gifts with the filth of swine, the droppings of birds I find in my wheat and wireworms make a buffet of it!”

  Viktor strained against the force of the sand-like obsidian. He could easily consume the divine essence charging it; he wanted to. But that would be a blatant form of a challenge, not to talk of disrespect. And he wasn’t ready to challenge the wolf of the hunt.

  Vandr’s son, Vandris the spider, was jealous of his favored position as Svol’s golden boy. This was just him lashing out on behalf of his son, he told himself. A way of pouring out his resentment that his son wasn’t as favoured as him. The painful and embarrassing part was that Vandris was one of Vandr’s Hands.

  “Esteemed Cardinal, Honored Hands,” he began as was custom, in a strained voice. “I come to you not to ask for forgiveness. I have failed you, and I accept your punishment, no matter how grave. I will bear it!”

  “No matter how grave?!” one of the Fingers said. “Do you know what the cost of your failure is?!”

  Viktor couldn’t see the face of the Hand, but he knew Vandris’ voice anywhere he heard it. The fucker! I would kill you if I ever got the chance, he thought. His jaw tightened, his voice steady but laden with frustration. “I commanded through a commissioned clone, as is custom in such high-risk engagements. The clone carried my divine charge and directives, but even with our might, we were overwhelmed!”

  “High-risk?” Vandris scoffed. “Do you hear yourself?”

  “The team of Sprouts we engaged took out two Elite Judges!” Viktor roared. That shut them up.

  “You mean to tell me that Timofey was defeated by a Sprout?!” the Cardinal asked in anger and unbelief.

  “Nay, Cardinal. But a Sage masquerading as one. And so was Faye. She’s not dead though, and I can’t—”

  “We can all sense her but there is no response to our calls to her,” another Hand said, a female this time around. That must be Avana, Faye’s mother. He could only imagine how much pain and anger she must feel now. Losing a child was a painful experience; losing a child whom one had invested a lot of resources in was even more so.

  “Whatever that Sage — the Spawn of Madru, they call him — did, it put her out of reach of us. My clone’s directive was to get her back from the heathens. And I requested permission to use the pegasi.”

  “The permission was granted by the Pontiff himself,” the Cardinal said. “But neither you nor Boris mentioned ‘Sprouts’ killing Judges like they were mere mortals.”

  “I say again, they were Sages. It took my clone fighting one to realize it.” Viktor looked away at the weight of the Cardinal’s accusatory stare. An ‘embarrassment’ would have been an understatement to such a report. Nowhere in history had Sprouts ever battled Judges and lived to tell the tale. He couldn’t even bring himself to get the runners to deliver such a report. “I truly underestimated them.”

  Vandris snorted. “Or you overestimate your abilities.”

  “I am the most powerful—”

  “That’s enough from the both of you!” the Cardinal ground out. “We have neither the time nor the effort to waste on childish banter. The Pontiff needs results in the south and he needs it now! The pegasi are doing so well in the deadlands, why not the south?”

  “Maybe if you had reported, such a mistake wouldn’t have happened,” Vandris said in a demeaning tone.

  “Don’t test me, son,” the Cardinal warned.

  “I agree with Vandris, Cardinal,” Yarik the tamer said. A man soft in speech, he was the voice of wisdom and caution in the Council of Judges. “We lost too many Messengers, clones they may have been but we lost them nonetheless. My disciples were able to get a glimpse through the eyes of some of my beasts, the capabilities of this team of Sprouts.”

  Everyone waited with bated breath for his next words.

  “He is much more than a Sprout, this Spawn of Madru. Their first glimpse of him was through the eyes of Bo, well, its clone. Bo was not one to bow out of a fight, but it was terrified of the sacred artist.”

  Silence reigned for a moment as they mused on Yarik’s words.

  “Nevertheless,” the Cardinal said, “Since you did not deliver Alvion, Viktor, you have no excuses! You did not follow protocols.”

  “Because I had no idea what to make of Sprouts that could kill elite Judges, Esteemed Cardinal.”

  “More excuses,” Vandris said mockingly. “The ‘Spawn of Madru’. Surely the Messengers came up with it to make this… Sprout seem more than he is.”

  “That’s because he is not what he appeared to be. They all weren’t. Wanting them to be Sprouts so badly so you can ruin my good name will do you no good, Vandris,” Viktor said, straining himself to sense the reactions of the Hands of the Cardinal. “His team overwhelmed us in a few breaths of the aerial battle starting. Does that sound like a team of Sprouts to you?”

  A ripple of murmurs broke through the chamber, but a raised hand from Cardinal Vandr silenced them. With a wave of his hand again, the obsidian holding Viktor bound loosened its grip and flowed to the floor.

  “It still doesn’t change the fact that you should have reported your findings,” Vandris said, disdain and glee evident in his voice. “Maybe we wouldn’t have lost two fine Elite Judges.”

  Yes, change the subject of my ridicule to your pleasing, will you? Viktor thought, stretching his aching muscles.

  “Hmm,” the Cardinal hummed his ascent, nodding.

  The rest of the Hands were silent. Even his master said nothing. Why couldn’t he defend him for once? Viktor scoffed silently. He didn’t need him. He would get himself out of this predicament and prove to them he was the best at what he did — taking out threats. And the best they could ever hope to get.

  “You said you were overwhelmed?” the Cardinal said, holding up a hand to silence the room once more. Viktor knew what he was feeling. Never, ever had a human team of sacred artists overwhelmed them before. A team of Sages on the other hand could do it without much effort. Which opened up other problems.

  “Yes, Esteemed Cardinal. The demon’s skill in aerial combat is unparalleled. He and his team flew higher and faster than our pegasi could hope to reach. They maneuvered through the air with an agility that defied reason, as though they were fae reborn. Granted, I have never seen Sages fight before.”

  “Fae?” Avana asked, her voice sharp with alarm. “Are you suggesting that Vorthe has rediscovered their dark secrets?”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Not the fae themselves, but something akin to their craftsmanship,” Viktor explained. “The demon and his team wore metal boots — artifacts — imbued with a purity and density of charge unlike anything I had seen. These boots allowed them to climb to altitudes beyond 5,000 feet, where our pegasi faltered. They moved through the skies with precision, weaving through our chokeholds as if the air itself bent to their will without resistance.”

  He thought of telling them of the Sage who helped them but thought better of it. Vandris would just use that against him. What would the others think of Sages masquerading as Sprouts and then an actual Sage coming to assist them in battle? No way he was going to mention that.

  “Hmm?” his master’s blue eyes turned on him. “Sages do not need artifacts to fly, disciple.”

  Imor the hound, a man known for his tactical mind — and Viktor’s master, leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled. He was a slender man. Tall, with a lean wiry frame and muscles, and a sharp nose and keen eyes.

  “I didn’t know that,” Viktor said. “Although they weren’t all wearing it.”

  “Which one is it, Viktor,” Vandris butted in, “were they, or were they not wearing flying artifacts? Get your report straight.”

  “Describe this essence,” Imor the hound said in a deep baritone voice, ignoring the fool’s banter. “What made it so formidable?”

  Viktor smiled inwardly. It was just like his master to use foreign terms like ‘essence’ in a gathering of Judges. He turned his thoughts back on the discussion, searching for the right words to use.

  “It was... denser. More refined than our divine charge we draw from the Light. It burned brighter, sharper, and carried a weight that made it difficult to absorb — not that we got the chance to try — they were moving faster than us in the air. Our Messengers struggled to maintain their techniques, finding it nigh impossible to hit the heathens, and our pegasi — blessed though they are — could do nothing to match their speed.”

  “So there’s nothing out of the ordinary about this essence, except for the fact it’s denser and purer?” Imor asked in thought.

  “Yes, Honored Hand.” Viktor nodded. “Might I add that when my clone sucked the essence out of the air and their artifacts, it staggered them for only a moment. The demon wasn’t affected at all though. He also wasn’t putting on the boots.”

  All eyes turned on him at those words. Silence reigned in the chamber as the Cardinal and his Hands absorbed this revelation. The Cardinal’s finger drummed against the obsidian table, his expression unreadable.

  “This is troubling indeed,” Vandr finally said. “I have fought a Sage before. What you describe is just about what they are capable of, maybe more. We do not know with these types of sacred artists as they rarely if ever display their skills.

  “Vorthe has been making discoveries for millenia, crafting new artifacts the world never knew it needed, and displacing many of ours. They found new distribution routes to kingdoms and peoples, along straits we never considered or even bothered to look for. A new type of flying artifact could change the very art of war, and this” — his piercing gaze bore into everyone around the table — “threatens the very foundation of our supremacy…

  “But not today, not if we do something about it, and quickly. The Pontiff wants us to solve this as swiftly as possible, and that is what we will do. Now tell us, how did this demon defeat your clone?”

  Viktor frowned at the reminder of the memory.

  “That bad, huh?” Avana said, reading his expression, then scoffed. “Spit it out.”

  “He studied my clone. I think he found out that physical attacks did no harm, so he did…” he closed his eyes for a moment to tap into the memories he had absorbed from the clone upon its death.

  “What is it?” Vandris asked impatiently. Viktor wanted to snap at him but Vandris was his superior, even though they were both Elite Judges who took the Ritual of Awakening at the same time, and in the same ceremony.

  “He used a weapon,” he said in realization. “No it was… space, just like Faye uses. The sensation was the same but… more. My clone was ripped apart for a moment before coming together again. That was where he got the idea, I believe.”

  The hound leaned forward, eyes boring into him with the weight of a physical drill. “What happened to the memory? From the look of you, you struggled to find it. Clones and their originals are not so mentally far apart that it should take this long to absorb memory.”

  Damn you Imor, for having such keen eyes, Viktor thought. “I have no idea,” he said, gritting his jaw in anger. He hated admitting weakness. It was unbecoming of him. And all because of that silver-eyed twit!

  “And I have an assumption,” Imor the hound said, leaning back into his chair. “This weapon… you said it is space — literal ‘space’?”

  Imo’s gaze bore into him as though he could read his thoughts. Viktor has heard rumors that the Pontiff and Saints could read the thoughts of one’s heart as though they were reading a book. His master couldn’t have such a terrifying ability, could he?

  “Firstly,” Imor said. “It isn’t possible for a Sprout to wield space, but since we’ve established that he is a Sage, then there is a possibility. Secondly, if it was space like you said, it shouldn’t have been seen with the naked eyes, should it? Yet you did.”

  Viktor nodded, taking it in stride. But he was burning up inside. He had never been so insulted in his life before. His master was blatantly accusing him of lying. Either that, or he was calling him a half-wit.

  I am the Golden Boy of Svol, damnit!

  Avana took a deep breath and said, “This man—”

  “Boy, honored Hand,” Viktor corrected. “Well, he looks like a boy. Young, though tall, as if he is just entering his majority.”

  “That is even more embarrassing, Viktor!” Vandris spat, slamming his fist on the obsidian table. Viktor clenched his fist, holding himself back from retorting. “This cannot stand! The Church of the Light cannot be humiliated by the spawn of heathens! And one who’s just barely stopped suckling his mother’s tits for that matter!”

  “And yet, we were,” Avana glared at him. Viktor took great delight in seeing the spider shrink into his seat. “You heard it yourself, he is masquerading as a Sprout. Bluster will not change the outcome. We must adapt. The Order of the Paladin awaits our failure, thirsts for it, even. We must not give them that pleasure.”

  The Hands went ahead to plan their next goal, focusing on how to get back Faye, or her body. If they were going up against Sages they needed all the information and help they could get. He absently heard the Cardinal talk about them using a more subtle approach. That meant a disciple of Avana the ghost, or Miska the pale one — who hadn’t spoken a word throughout the meeting — would be sent for the next mission.

  Viktor would have loved to go, to redeem himself. His master would surely be ashamed of him now. But something deep down was troubling him. Something the hound had scratched the surface of. He had taken too long to search out the memory of how his clone was injured, and had inferred that that was how it died. Thankfully no one had asked further questions.

  But the blade that injured the clone hadn’t been what killed it. He kept searching his memories for what dealt the final blow but found nothing. This was a dilemma, one that could quickly become a problem if the Church found out. So he had to find out first. Even thinking it felt like a weight on his chest.

  How did my clone die in that gods forsaken forest?

  The meeting went on long into the night. The Hands were concerned about potential powers the demon might have. Thrusting their disciples into battle against such a mysterious foe was a folly in itself. If only commissioning a clone for an Elite Judge wasn’t such an energy and time-consuming thing, there wouldn’t have been the need to walk on eggshells as they were doing now. They needed more time for surveillance to know all the demon was capable of, and perhaps his weakness.

  Avana volunteered to do the reconnaissance herself. Though the Cardinal opposed it at first, he gave in, seeing she might also have the opportunity to take out the demon’s teammates. Never before had a Hand done the job of an Elite Judge, but these were desperate times. He could only imagine what it would be like to give the Saint of the Judges such a report of failure. The huntsman would not be pleased. His grandfather wasn’t also known to forgive.

  Viktor cut off the thought of the man he feared most in the Church finding out of his failures. His grandfather, the Saint and Overseer of the Order of the Judges, Vigo the huntsman, was a scary man. He shuddered in spite of himself. He forced his thoughts away from him for now. Getting Faye back was the goal, whether dead or alive. They couldn’t leave an Elite Judge with all the secrets of her body with Vorthe. That was more power in their hands.

  “Ahem,” the Cardinal cleared his throat, looking at Viktor. “You will get a chance to redeem yourself, Golden Boy. And I hope for your sake, and for ours, you will not fail this time.”

  Viktor went down on his knee, relief washing through him. “Thank you, Esteemed Cardinal.”

  “However…” The Cardinal’s eyes pinned him where he was. “You will go without a clone.” The Cardinal raised a hand to stop his protest. “Yes, this is a level four mission, maybe even a level five, as he has taken out not one but two Elite Judges. However, commissioning a new clone for an Elite Judge takes almost a season. And you have only one left. I also will not trust you with our dwindling Messenger clone army” — dwindling my foot, Viktor thought — “they would stand out for what we want to achieve as well. You go alone with Avana and her clone. And find a way to disguise yourself.”

  The Cardinal turned to Avana. “You can only take one clone of yourself, no more.”

  Avana bowed in her seated position. “One is all I would need, Cardinal.”

  “You’re dismissed,” the Cardinal said to him.

  Viktor stood, bowed and walked out of the meeting chamber. He walked through the labyrinth thinking of how he was going to rip the demon’s head from his shoulders. He turned a corner and was immediately slammed into the wall. The dull blue light from the runes on the wall flashed, hurting his eyes. Someone pinned him to the wall with a strength that far surpassed his. His arm was roughly twisted behind him, causing him the kind of pain only his master could dish out.

  “Do you have any idea the shit you’ve put yourself in?” the hound ground out. “I’ve told you time without number that the world doesn’t revolve around you, Viktor. Just because your grandfather is the Saint of the Judges doesn’t mean everything will just fall in your lap” — it always has and nothing will change that, Viktor thought — “This might seem like a second chance but it is not. It is a second chance at failure! And woe unto you if you fail.”

  “I won’t!” he hissed.

  “And you know this, how?!” his master barked, pushing his face into the wall. “You’re being pushed to your shame and death and there’s nothing your grandfather can do about it. Don’t think I did not notice you didn’t complete the story of how your clone died. You cannot remember, can you?... Can you?!”

  Viktor’s heart beat wildly in his chest, his words caught in his throat. Of course his master will notice! Why did he think otherwise?

  “Avana wouldn’t be the only Elite on this mission. Whoever it is they send after her may very well aim for your head… you have been warned, Viktor.”

  His master vanished into thin air and he hit the floor.