[center][img]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/crows2.jpg[/img] [size=1]Chronicles of Dadiras:[/size] [b]Maszqueral[/b] [size=1]By Evan Bittle[/size] [b]Part V[/b] - - - - - - - - - -[/center] Where was it? He couldn't find it. He couldn't find it anywhere at all. Maszqueral was in a frenzy, a desperate search through his estate for the Black Book. Last remembering it with him at the Temple of the High Templar, he did his best not to accept that he could of possibly left it there. [i]Here, it has to be here somewhere![/i] He told himself this perpetually, the sweat beading on his forehead as he shuffled through papers and books, tearing apart his beddings and removing shelves from their places. [i]I've simply misplaced it,[/i] he told himself again, but at the back of his mind he knew it was much worse. He had left it at the Temple. That is what the Templar came to the Council meeting for, to speak to Gerrid. To [i]tell[/i] Gerrid what they had found, the evidence the High Councilman had always been looking for. Any evidence to get Maszqueral out of his seat, and this was more than enough to humiliate him... No, it put him up for the deserving of death! He was heretical. He could see the Templar's bringing a sharpened blade over his head already. The glimmer of it in the sunlight, the dry smell of his own rancid breath after days of starvation and torture. But death would be welcome then... And then there was a knock on the door. A commanding sound which reverberated through Maszqueral's entire home. His eyes wide, he stopped his scouring, looking toward the heavy wooden front portal. There was another knock, louder this time. "Templar business; open up this door!" a booming voice called. Maszqueral did nothing, simply stared. After a pause, another loud, single knock. "We know you are home, Captain. It is important that we speak with you. Open the door." The man behind the door tried to sound friendly in a mocking sort of way, yet clearly his voice was filled with the pleasured and fervorous zeal of a heathen-hunting Templar. "Speak with me?" Maszqueral said aloud to himself, still watching the door. [i]They want to slaughter me![/i] What if he was mistaken? Even if he had lost the book, could they connect it to him? Maybe the Templars standing on the other side of that gateway actually did have business with him. It would not be the first time the temple had visited him. At the same time: maybe the Librarian had confessed allowing Maszqueral into the archives in the first place. Maybe even Diliri had informed the officials. "Fine." A muffled voice from behind the door said. "Break it in." Maszqueral reached for one of his swords, this one sheathed and its casing draped over a chair at a nearby table. He lifted the blade in front of himself. He would kill to protect his life if necessary, but the Templars were not foolish, and were quite aware of his skill as a warrior. Even without his armor, Maszqueral could take two or three of them of the shining-gold Templar with him before falling. He expected those few outside the door had brought at least a dozen standard soldiers with them as well. Yes, they were not fools in the least. And then they broke the door down. It was quick and precise, a squadron of them storming into Maszqueral's home and surrounding him. Madness in their eyes, armed for a battlefield and looking for any reason to kill. But no, he couldn't die. Not here, not now, not after everything he had learned! But why should he live? Part of him now wanted to take the sword and slit his own throat, throw himself upon it and wrench out his innards into the floor. But another part of him, a strangely stronger call within him, told him to live. Told him to let them do to him what they wanted. He had all but lost his sanity now. Dropping the blade out of his hands, the soldiers came over him instantly and knocked the Captain to the ground. Deftly, they threw a black cover over his head, and took him away into the unknown. [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] [center][i]Their minds are closed to judgment, A bloody reminder unseen by such infant eyes. Their hands are over their ears, Hearts marked in prayer to idols for a mercy they will not receive. It is mercy they do not deserve. For Dadiras comes, for His return is nigh! Their only defense their own ignorance, A wall they create which will only fall. They are fools, to the last one of them, For they refuse to see. Though birthed with eyes, They refuse to open them. Here, in the End, I see none of them, Through all things they are nowhere. Destined to die and never to live, Never to breath the life which I have been given! It is their pain now. Though I ache, the blood dry on my hands, All now I can do is wait for Him. Soon, He will come, they shall see it then! And when He does they shall regret all things. They will regret what they did to me. The one they call HIERARCH shall regret it the most.[/i] - Excerpt from The Synod of Masz, [i]Chapteer I[/i][/center] [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] Pain. All he knew was pain. How long had it been? Days? Weeks? It didn't matter anymore. Maszqueral had rotten away for what seemed in eternity in the back corner of a damp and dirty cell, growing pale from the lack of light in his little hell of infinite darkness. But he was here now, set atop a pillar, a slab of bloody rock placed before a crowd of a hundred spectators. Now, his true suffering would begin. The bright light in his eyes and the mutterings of eager voices in his ears, he heard Gerrid, that indignant fool himself begin to speak. He spoke as a demagogue, and a demigod in his own mind. He dressed today in an extravagant attire of white, gold, and various shades of blue, similarly colored imperial banners flowing behind him in the light wind. The sun shone brightly in the sky, which itself was a brilliant blue as well. Today, on any other occasion, was a perfect day brought about the end of a perpetual rainstorm. The irony of it helped little to comfort Maszqueral as he struggled weakly against his bonds. Ayille, satisfied with himself, began reciting his manipulative poetry of words: "Maszqueral: the son of the honorable General Queral, the Division Captain of the Eastland Imperial Vanguard, the elected state Councilman..." He did his best to rub salt into an open wound, and to remind the people that this tortured man before them was someone they had elected into powerful position. A holy betrayer, of all things! Gerrid continued, "You are hereby charged with open heresy against the Temple, conspiracy against the Empire, possession of illegal documents, and murder." Gasps came over the crowd. Murder? They had blamed the death of the the Librarian, who they had in fact killed themselves, on Maszqueral. It was more insult to injury, if only for good measure, but the people didn't care. Heresy was damnable enough, but they were satisfied all the more now that Maszqueral was dying with every good reason. Gerrid went on, "As punishment, you are removed of military rank, your seat on the Council, your estate, and are sentenced to public torture and-" He paused, smiling as Maszqueral groaned in hopelessness. Then, "And furthermore: banishment from the Eastland Empire." Almost mockingly, Gerrid, in his brilliant white robes and with his sarcastic grin, asked, "Do you have any words in your defense?" "I despise you." Maszqueral said simply, spitting onto the ground. He wanted to ring his hands around Gerrid's throat, watch the life leave him in his last breath, his cheeks as blue as the drapery on his shoulders. He would of without hesitation, had he not been chained down. Gerrid, catching Maszqueral's glare, only continued to smile. Behind him, Maszqueral could hear movement. Looking over his shoulder, a Templar in his gold armor fashioned a long, steel barbed whip. A moment later, its tip was sunk into Maszqueral's exposed back, and with the roar of the crowd, was torn out of him. And it struck him again, and again, the the pain echoing out of him in strangely pitched screams, until he could barely even breath at all. The blood rushed through his veins, pouring freely from his open wounds, and with each passing second he felt his flesh burning. Every inch of his body seemed in agony, the barbed whipped digging deeper into his back. Sweat beaded on his body, his scars and bruises reverberating with an internal energy. But, as it grew, it was beyond physical. It was a pain, a deep aching feeling inside of him that knew no end. It was a terrible hole in his chest, an empty and terrible thing which threatened to eat him from the inside out. It was surrounded by a pulsing numbness, a white flare of light that blinded his eyes even as he clenched them shut. Was this what it was like to die? Maszqueral gnashed his teeth as the whipping finally stopped, a strong hand reaching from behind him and pulling back his head by the hair. With wide, tear-stung eyes he saw the crowd around him, some staring unto him in awe, others laughing and cursing his name. They all deserved to die. Every last one of them. The fearful, the sympathetic, the apathetic: they were all guilty, not a single one among them were innocent. He was being punished for seeking the truth, and they sat in chaotic ignorance, not one of them knowing what it felt like to suffer! None of them could compare a lifetime to woes to what he felt now, and he hated them for it. He hated them! He hated them and their bastard fathers, the whores who birthed them! All because of this pain... No, he wasn't dead yet, but he was far from alive. They had torn him from his body, they clawed away at his soul. He was a ghost. He was a monster. "You don't deserve to live." A furious voice behind him said, a bodiless call which resonated loudly in his ears. Maszqueral sat kneeling, the only thing stopping him from dropping into a slump now being the tight grip on his hair. "But we won't grace you with death." "No..." Maszqueral said softly, more to himself than anyone else. "Kill... them... Kill them all." "What?" The voice said, the grip on his head becoming stronger and shaking him. The Templar couldn't understand the garbled whisper of a man at the point of collapse. "Dadiras..." Maszqueral spoke again, his voice trailing. "Promise me... that they will die..." Dadiras grants what men desire. The Templar, disgusted, threw Maszqueral down onto the ground, let him fall into a pile of boiling flesh and bone. With a strong foot, he brought one last hell down upon the broken man's face. And all he knew was pain, and black. When he next became conscious, slowly opening his eyes, Maszqueral did not know how much time had passed. His body felt numb, rocking as he watched the clouds, the same bright blue sky racing above him. There was the sound of birds, calling and flying free. Crows, all of them. What was this? He could smell sweat and blood, the damp taste of rotting human flesh. Painfully he turned his head, realizing he was on his back, to find all around him corpses or those who looked ready to become them. Within a wooden cage, it's floor strewn with hay and bodies, he lay atop a man already dead. Others around him coughed and attempted to tend to infected wounds. Criminals and outcasts, each and every one. Those who survived their tortures, their starvation, were left to run wild in the West. This is where they were going. The horse drawn wagon was one of several others, each carrying a dozen or so men and women to the Karan River, the long standing border between the separate Westlands and Eastlands. There the soldiers would throw their prisoners into the water, forcing them to swim to the other side in one final struggled to survive. Maszqueral knew this, for he had sent many cursed men into those waters himself in his early days as a soldier. Though really, that was hardly the end of their troubles. If they somehow did manage to make it across, despite their fatigue and horrors, they were naked and alone in a feral and widely unfamiliar place. Weakly, Maszqueral began to sit up, and though in pain it did not matter. Pain, anymore, seemed only an afterthought. Propping himself against one of the cage's wooden bars, he looked slowly around to the others in his own carriage. He took deep breaths through his mouth, refusing to take in the offensive smells. Most of them were already dead, those alive beaten down as much as he was. Their bodies were cut and bruised, bones broken and heads shaved. One man, appearing the youngest among them, looked as though he were missing most of his teeth, a stained bloody mess across his chin and chest. Most likely the Templars had torn out his teeth one by one. The Holy Divines, advocates of peace and order. He had believed it only days ago, and was willing to die for that cause regardless of what he knew happened to these spies, criminals and heretics. They had a divine excuse to torture and destroy men for no reason whatsoever, convicting them often of crimes they did not commit. If they were guilty for anything, it was for thinking freely. As they approached the Karan, the caravan stopped. The rear gates of the wagons opening, those able to move were forced outside, Maszqueral among them. Those who were dead or too weak were dragged out, tossed into the water to float as bloating carcasses. Maszqueral looked at them, floating there. So graceful as the birds pecks at their flesh. The soldiers then began knocking them over, pushing and tossing them down a long drop into the cold water. As Maszqueral hit the surface of it, he considered going ahead and purposely drowning himself, but once more he knew he had to survive. Dadiras had given him that vision for a reason, enlightened him this far and there was so much more to learn. Dadiras would protect him. Wouldn't he? Maszqueral, struggling to stay afloat despite his exhaustion and injuries, took to keeping himself above the surface by throwing himself over a body, using its buoyancy. Even so, the water rushed down his throat and into his lungs, and he coughed up a bloody mixture. The guards behind him, taunted and laughed at him as he struggled with what little energy he had to get to the other side of the river. As he reached it, he threw a hand into the muddy earth, gripped onto the grass there. He pulled, his muscles on fire, eventually managing to get himself halfway onto the ground. A few of the soldiers on the other side made sounds of annoyance and disdain, howling calls coming from them, their humor lost at the sight of him surviving rather than drowning. They had probably lost bets between each other that none of their 'catch' today would survive across. Naked and freezing, Maszqueral could do little more than lay there a moment, his breathing heavily. He could hear the noises of others drowning and splashing water wildly behind him. He could do nothing to help them. All that mattered was his own life right now. Slowly, but surely, he pulled himself fully out from the waters and into the dry land, the curses of soldiers yelling at his scarred and mutilated back while he crawled face first into the dirt. Struggling and stumbling up onto his feet, he began to run into the west, away from the afternoon sun, and despite all of his pains. He ran until he could run no more, and when his feet failed him, he once more crawled, always further into the West. His feet, hands, elbows, and knees all bloody, he strove, somehow, on a last bit of adrenaline. It seemed the only thing keeping him alive, to just get away from everything now behind him. Where was he? It didn't matter. Dadiras was calling in the West! Finally, he collapsed and became once more unconscious, some distance away from the river in a gray waving field of grass. It felt like needles in his skin. It was difficult to understand everything that was happening then, with the world and his mind in a euphoric haze. He melted into the ground itself, his mind becoming a void. He left everyone and everything he once was back [i]there[/i], and [i]here[/i] he was free. His sanity, even, had stayed behind. But what are those? Silly little somethings coming closer to him. His face on its side, half dug into the dirt, he weakly smiled. Maszqueral stared blankly then as all he could see was a few pairs of a young feet standing next to him. Children, oh the children. They had found him. Maybe they could take him home.