Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 24: A Ghost from Danic

Regis' dreams were nebulous and distant. He drifted through curling smoke and the echoes of clashing steel. Lightning clapped as heavy, burning stones streaked through the air like meteorites. He was in Orienta, and Danic, and a thousand other battlefields.

Dreams of war were common for him now. They haunted him in his sleep as much as they did in his waking life. It was the price one paid for picking up the ax. The price one paid, thinking that violence was the answer to life's call.

A man coughed somewhere. Regis searched through the shadows but found nothing. He continued to float, aware, and yet distant of his surroundings. Slowly, his senses came back to him. The hardness of the stone floor against his back. The scratchy fabric serving him as a blanket. That incessant coughing that bit at his ears.

Regis woke up. Wiping the drool from his lips, he pulled himself up from the bedroll. He stretched, letting his aching back squeal a protest before righting back once more. Magus coughed nearby, wheezing in between breaths.

Another fit, Regis thought to himself. The Wyrdling had really outdone himself this time. What good was magick if all it did was leave you vulnerable to your enemies?

Regis shuffled over and nudged at Magus. "Hey, old man. You feeling all right?"

Magus gave him a weary look. "The air...it's thick." Another tirade of coughs came over the wizened magician.

Regis paid him no mind and grabbed the waterskin nearby. "Here, you could do with some wine. It'll help you rest."

Magus mumbled something but relented in taking a few sips. After a few minutes, his eyes grew heavy once more, and the magician returned to an uncomfortable sleep.

Taking a few sips of wine for his own, Regis settled back into his bedroll but found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned before ultimately getting up. Sleep, it seemed, would be an elusive bitch tonight. He smoothed out his fatigues and strapped his axes to his belt. Even in the Sophis' sanctity, he still only felt safe with his weapons at his side. A quirk for a man accustomed to violence, Regis supposed.

The exiled prince stepped outside the room into the adjoining hallway. An eerie silence had fallen over the place. The type that howled in your ears. Candles sputtered from sconces nearby, casting shadows all around. Not a soul stirred.

Regis retraced his steps until he was back in the nave, where the civilians had congregated. Even then, it was quiet. Something that Regis had a hard time appreciating. Silence on a battlefield was a rarity and a dangerous one at that.

Off to the far left, the Empress' statue still stood, staring down into the congregation. Regis couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship of it. Every detail was meticulously carved into the stone, from the ribbed patterns in her mask to her eyes' steadfast gaze. From where Regis stood, the Empress looked almost deific.

Perhaps that was the point after all. Around every nook and cranny in the Sanctus Sophis were little shrines dedicated to every god and godling that existed in some culture's pantheon. A small squat beast sat shoulder to shoulder with a six-armed goddess. A snake coiled around an apple tree shared a corner with a bearded straw doll wielded a yellow-painted stick that Regis could only guess was lightning.

Every god whose lands the Empress had conquered stood here in the Sanctus Sophis, with the Empress towering over them. Quite the allegory, Regis mused.

In his youth, the old Regis would have raged over such sacrilege. The Danic gods were mighty warriors, their song-tales spanning from the lips of generation after generation. How could a mortal Empress stand fit to see herself above them? And yet it was the Empress who would win him his fiefdom back. Not the gods of Danic. Only she had listened when all other ears fell deaf to his needs.