Mercy of the Prophet: Book One

The Mercy of the Prophet

Night shrouded the dead city. Dense clouds obscured the moon, and dark walls loomed high overhead, black against black. Here in this place, the followers of the Prophet had burned thousands of their own people alive to cleanse them of their sins, and as fuel in the fires of power that would forge a new age.

Here, even the spirits had been burned away forever.

Here, no one came willingly, save the few survivors, and Talaos with his companions.

Mercy of the Prophet

Book One

The Fourth Book of Storm and Fire

By Anthony Gillis

First Edition

Published by Sol Invictus Publishing Inc

Cover design and interior artwork by Anthony Gillis

Copyright © 2015 Anthony Gillis

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 9781310880766

Publication History:

First Edition, August 2015

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Find more books by the author at

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-AG-

Preface

This work is dedicated to those who dare to pursue their dreams, come what may.

Welcome, readers of The Storm’s Own Son! Storm and Fire continues here. For those who wondered what Talaos would do, having achieved mastery of a nation, yet lost the power that helped him in his rise—the answer is here.

He and his enemies have not been idle, and the deeds of each have consequences felt ever more widely in the world. Mercy of the Prophet continues the themes found in The Storm’s Own Son. If at this point, you’re still hoping to see Talaos transform into a shining, selfless champion of good for the sake of good, you’re likely to be disappointed. As with the rest of Storm and Fire, this book features graphic sex and violence. If they offend you, read no further.

If, on the other hand, you loved the unapologetic tale of a man unafraid to seek what he wants, you’ll find more here. That said, Talaos continues to learn, grow, and change. He faces many threats to his goals, his rule, and his life. His friends, lovers, and companions have their own roles to play. Decide for yourself what you think of his choices, and theirs.

Welcome again, and enjoy.

The best to you,

Anthony Gillis

The complete Storm and Fire saga comprises the following:

First Trilogy

The Storm's Own Son - Book One

The Storm's Own Son - Book Two

The Storm's Own Son - Book Three

Second Trilogy

Mercy of the Prophet - Book One

Mercy of the Prophet - Book Two

Mercy of the Prophet - Book Three

Third Trilogy

Lord of Worlds - Book One

Lord of Worlds - Book Two

Lord of Worlds - Book Three

Other Books by Anthony Gillis

Blood on Bronze

Alien Empire

Jamaica Rum

Barrett's Bar Stories

Mercy of the Prophet

Book One

Table of Contents

Front

Map of the World

Map of Hunyos

Prologue

1. Old Believers

2. Wolves on the Mountain

3. The Elder King

4. Sight and Thought

5. Voice

6. Secrets

7. Loyalty

8. Imperium

9. Shadows

10. Memory

11. The Harbinger

12. Home That Was

13. Depths

14. The Wound in the World

15. Blasphemies

16. Illumination

17. Riding the Wind

Preview of Mercy of the Prophet, Book Two

About the Author

Other Books by the Author

Acknowledgements

The World of Storm and Fire

Partial Map Excerpt

The World of Storm and Fire

Map of Hunyos

Prologue

Sunset lit a blood-red sky and golden clouds.

A city of stepped pyramids, angular spires, and towering apartment blocks, all built of red stone, rose amid a tangled patchwork of farmland. A wide, sluggish river meandered from lofty distant mountains in the north. From the tallest of those peaks rose a faint trail of smoke. Broad, straight, stone-paved roads ran out from the city in several directions. They passed the farms and cut through dense green jungle beyond.

In the heart of the city, a square plaza surrounded a low dais. Atop the dais sat a rectangular stone platform, like a bench or couch. It bore carven glyphs, and dark stains. A wide avenue lined with geometric statues of snarling, fanged animals stretched between the plaza and what was by far the largest of the structures, a smooth-sided, flat-topped pyramid rising three hundred feet into the sky. From the avenue, a series of stairs and terraces ascended a single side of that pyramid to a lofty palace with golden walls. Sunset lit the gold like fire.

The monumental entrance of the palace was flanked by gigantic statues of squat six-headed beasts, sculpted from gleaming black stone. They had carven warriors in their jaws and under their clawed feet. Tall soldiers stood guard at the open doors with long spears at the ready. They wore intricate bronze breastplates, red kilts of cotton, helms with transverse crests of multicolored feathers, and capes made of the pelts of various great predatory creatures. Their round, bronze shields bore painted sigils, and crests of feathers along their lower rims.

Beyond the doors opened a cavernous chamber held aloft by mighty pillars in the form of coiled serpents. Each of the walls to left and right ran with twisting geometric patterns centered on three glyph-carved discs of gold. In front of each disc sat a brazier, burning with a small flame lit by no visible fuel.

At the far end of the chamber rose a circular platform, intricately engraved with lines and sigils. In the center of the platform sat a massive throne in the shape of a pair of snarling jaguars, carved from a single, colossal piece of jade.

Rows of men and women kneeled before the throne with legs folded under them. Those toward the back wore plain kilts of unbleached white cotton. A smaller number at the front were clad in multicolored kilts and heavy bronze jewelry, rich with jade and lapis. On their heads rested silver bands bearing bright plumes of feathers.

They had dark bronze or brown complexions and dark brown eyes lined with kohl. Though varied in appearance, the more richly clad tended toward tall, strong frames and elegant-featured, if stern, faces. Their upper bodies were bare of cloth, and they wore their black hair long, bound with copper rings.

Flanking the throne stood two soldiers much like those outside, and several very tall men and women in scarlet kilts with belts of gold plates. They wore richly inlayed jewelry and varied helms or headdresses with tall feather crests. At their belts, these, and these alone, carried wide daggers of obsidian and small chalices of gold.

Directly behind the throne loomed a huge double doorway of bronze bound in gold. A deep reverberating sound, like a great bell, rang through the doors. Those who stood by the throne gracefully dropped to kneel. Those who had already been kneeling now fell flat to their faces on the stone floor. The doors opened. Through them walked a towering man, powerfully muscled and a head or more taller than any other in the room.

His dark bronze skin bore crimson tattoos in patterns of glyphs. His piercing, black, kohl-lined eyes surveyed the room from under sharp and heavy black brows. His jet-black hair was shaved on the sides, with the rest held in a queue behind his head by rings of gold. At the point of his chin he had a thick beard, long and braided. He wore an undecorated blood-red kilt, a belt of gold discs, gold bracers at his wrists and greaves of the same on his legs. On his head rested a thick band carved from a single piece of black onyx, deeply incised with runes.

He walked to the bronze platform, ascended, and sat on the throne. He watched for a moment as all bowed before him, and then raised his right hand. The six braziers suddenly blazed forth, and the room brightened with flickering red and gold light. He spoke with a rich, deep bass voice in a slow, solemn-toned language.

Rise, exalted and worthy ones, he said.

Those gathered around the throne rose to stand. After them, those before it in rich clothes rose to kneel, bowed with heads touching the floor, then stood. The others remained prostrate and face down on the stone.

Hierophant, step forward, said the giant.

A tall, slender woman left her place at the right hand of the throne. She had sharp brows, intense, kohl-painted eyes and full, blood-red lips. Faint lines traced her otherwise smooth face, as of a harsh expression worn for many years, and her long black hair was streaked heavily with gray. She wore much gold, and a gorget of red stones around her neck and shoulders. At her brow was a gold band with a large onyx disc, and above that a tall headdress of black feathers. She carried a twisting staff in the form of a serpent with the head of a great snarling cat.

The Hierophant bowed low before the seated man.

You will speak with the emissaries, the giant commanded her.

I hear and obey, my father, god and king, she replied.

She turned to face the entrance. After a short while, thirty soldiers appeared. Six wore red kilts, animal cloaks, and tall plumes; the rest brown kilts and plain bronze helms. As each row of soldiers entered, they paused to bow low while the rest remained attentive to their duty at hand, for they surrounded a group of eight; four men and four women of different appearance than any others in the vast chamber.

The newcomers walked barefoot. The men had full beards and simple white caps. The women wore hair bound in tight coils, and plain white shawls. Seven of them dressed in simple robes of gray or brown, but one man, the eldest of them, wore white. He had light bronze skin, and his gray hair and beard were streaked with white. The depths of his brown eyes flickered with green fire, but the expression on his aquiline face, like those with him, was patient and gentle.

The other seven newcomers varied in complexion. One of the women was pale, with dark blue eyes and light brown hair. Another, the youngest, had coloration much like those waiting in the chamber, though her features were softer, with heavy-lidded brown eyes and rounded lips over a delicate chin. As a group, they were notably shorter than those who stood around the throne.

The procession reached a cleared space between those who stood in rows and the Hierophant waiting before the throne. The soldiers flanking the emissaries now turned to toward them, with unsmiling faces and hands on their spears.

The emissary in white stood before the king and the Hierophant with his hands clasped. He spoke in the language they had used, though accented. He addressed the king directly. Greetings, Ahran Thra, lord of the uttermost south. As ambassador of the Living Prophet, I offer you peace, tidings, and counsel.

Ahran Thra surveyed the ambassador in silence, and as if he looked at an insect.

The Hierophant replied, with contempt in her eyes and a curl of her red lips, You are not worthy to address a god, ambassador, and will speak to me.

The ambassador himself seemed undisturbed and retained his gentle, detached posture and expression. He now spoke to the Hierophant. First, I humbly beg your lord and people to lay down your arms, live in peace, and contemplate the words of the Prophet.

You know what answer you will receive, ambassador—the same that was returned with your predecessor ten years ago. State now why you have truly come.

The ambassador replied calmly, The Living Prophet sends word that the Ninth Seal of the World has been found at last. The Unholy One has arisen in might, and the end times are upon us. Even now, the enemy gathers power in the Westlands. Armies flock to his banner, and his lies delude the unwary. The Prophet invites your lord, Guardian of the Sixth Seal, to friendship and cooperation against this terrible threat.

The Hierophant made a low, cold laugh and replied, Four centuries ago, your Prophet betrayed the trust placed in his predecessors as Guardians of the Eighth Seal. He did so in quest of his own godhood, and now you come with fears of a new rival?

Four centuries ago, gently answered the ambassador, the young man who is now the Living Prophet was chosen to become Guardian, and the twelfth Seer of the Seals, because he was and is gifted with sight such as no other before or since. Years after, he foresaw the end times approaching, the time of the great transformation. All of mankind will ascend and unite into a single higher being. You, I, and your lord will be part of the universal God, every bit as much as the Prophet.

The Hierophant ignored his response and added a question. Where is the Hand of the Prophet? One of them was bound here, but was not found on your ship.

No Hand travelled with us, replied the ambassador.

A venomous smile crossed the Hierophant's face. She spoke again, You omit much, about that and something more. We know that your people have used the name Unholy One against our god and king. Despite the veils your Prophet weaves over the world, we have a true prophet among us, kept safe from your assassins. He is the prophet Khosru Im, and he has seen.

With that, she gestured to a muscular young man standing at the left hand of the throne. He had runic tattoos on his skin, a shaved head, and a beard braided in gold bands. He wore a long kilt with golden glyphs on the hem, and a cylindrical helm of bronze with copper inlay. His left eye had been replaced with a black onyx stone. The other shimmered with faint white light.

The ambassador paused, and seemed to carefully consider his reply. What was seen was a glimpse of the past. The name of Unholy One is taken from another vision of the Prophet. It speaks of a mighty one who would oppose the great transformation, and in doing so bring terrible destruction to the earth. The Living Prophet long sought knowledge of whom that might be, and at one time, long ago, he thought it might be your lord. But it was not so. It is clear now that the Unholy One is none other than the heir of the arch-sinners, the old gods.

There is only one fit to claim the title of heir to the great old ones, replied the Hierophant, and that is Ahran Thra, son of the Green Mother, last of the nine heroes who fought at Kara-Ahyos, god and king of the Southlands for the past four thousand years.

Ahran Thra, upon his jade throne, opened the fingers of his left hand. A swirl of bronze-red smoke gathered in them, took shape, and materialized as a large golden chalice. It was empty.

I plead that we must abandon all pretense, and all old enmity, replied the ambassador. The other guardians and old powers have fallen with the passage of time. Only your lord and the Prophet remain. Your lord is the son of a goddess, but he is not a god, nor their heir. The signs are not upon him. For the sake of his soul, he should be thankful that he is not. The true scion of the Elder King himself is now revealed, and he will seek to open the seals. We must act, and the time is short.

Ahran Thra himself now spoke, and his voice echoed deep as a mighty drum. Enough! Perhaps such a false usurper has emerged in the north, and perhaps not. We will find the truth and deal with it in our own way. But you, emissaries, have blasphemed with your lies.

The richly clad people in the lines dropped again to their knees. The Hierophant and most of the others in red took on interested, almost hungry, expressions. The Prophet's ambassador stood calmly, with hands folded before him, as did the seven with him.

The whites of Ahran Thra's eyes turned to blood red. He stretched out his right hand and spread his fingers, palm up, as if he carried something of weight there. Five of those with the Prophet's ambassador leaned slightly forward, with surprise showing beneath their meditative calm. Then Ahran Thra swiftly curled his fingers and thumb backward toward his palm.

The five suddenly jerked forward at their necks as if pulled by strings. Their throats ripped open in sprays of blood that spattered all nearby, most of all the Hierophant. Blood swirled out from their necks in five streams of mist, crossed the open space to the throne, and collected in Ahran Thra's golden chalice.

The five corpses fell to earth, and their blood poured and pooled in the stones. Ahran Thra took a sip from his now-full chalice. The Hierophant ran two fingers along her bare and blood-soaked waist. She brought the red-dripping fingers to her smiling lips.

The remaining emissaries, the woman with the light hair, and the woman of the Southlands, stepped close to the ambassador. He in turn waved his right hand in a circle, and green flames rose up in a whirling ring around the three of them.

The ambassador still smiled his placid smile, but his eyes now blazed with verdant fire. Flames burst outward from the ring and into the soldiers nearby. Fifteen of those who wore brown kilts and bronze helms fell to the floor screaming as their flesh withered. Four more who wore red kilts snarled and stepped backwards out of the flames.

The ambassador spoke again with very different words, though his gentle voice was unchanged. Alas for you, false god. You linger and decay here, dreaming of ancient days, while the power of the old ones rises again to doom us all. May you yet find peace and redemption.

The woman of the Southlands reacted in another way entirely. She turned to face the throne with sudden new intensity in her expression. She spoke, and calm soon vanished from her voice. King of the Southlands? I am from Great Akhet, and despite your wars, we have been free of you for two hundred years! In Raha Shar, it is a thousand. In the lands beyond that, you are remembered only as a demon in old tales. While you wither, the true faith spreads to every corner of the world, and it will be triumphant! Someday you will burn on the pyres!

Even as she spoke, the ambassador calmly chanted and moved his hands in circling gestures. The green flames began to grow stronger, and verdant tongues of fire flicked outward.

Ahran Thra then moved his right hand in a different gesture, something like snuffing out a candle, but brushing all four fingers in a twisting motion against his thumb.

The green fires went out. Three red-kilted soldiers leapt forward and ran the ambassador through with their long spears. He fell and died, face still at peace.

Exalted ones, said Ahran Thra with a dark smile, take the Westland woman, and drink deeply. Soldiers, bring me the rebel. Worthy ones, you may take from the floor around the five slain.

The woman with blue eyes and light brown hair quietly recited meditations as she was seized by those nearby. The Hierophant set aside her staff, then smiled and drew the obsidian dagger and the golden cup from her belt. The others in red, save for Khosru Im alone, followed her actions, and together they surrounded the Westlander with cruel, leering expressions.

The woman of Akhet was dragged before the throne. Ahran Thra smiled as his soldiers forced her to kneel. She glared at him in hatred and defiance, all pretense of detachment gone.

Ahran Thra gazed at her, roaming her face and body with merciless red eyes, then spoke. Beautiful traitor. You of the Prophet admire service and sacrifice for a cause. Now you will learn what they truly mean.

He took a deep draught from the chalice.

MERCY OF THE PROPHET

BOOK ONE

THE FOURTH BOOK

OF STORM AND FIRE

1. Old Believers

The Imperator of Hunyos rode swiftly north with only a small company. A storm gathered in the sky behind him, but it was not his storm. He was sundered from that power, and many others. He watched the road ahead, alert for danger. The countryside of walled towns and small farming villages had given way to dark, forested hills.

Ahead and to the sides, beyond the hills, rose ranges of pine-clad mountains. Beyond even them, far ahead, he could see the first glimpse of the high peaks, bare rock gleaming in the golden late afternoon light.

Tal, there they are! said Miriana, her voice and eyes suddenly bright. She wore a short, practical dress of Hunyos in dark forest green over brown pants and boots, and her auburn hair was braided with flowers. She rode skillfully on a spirited white horse.

And that highest mountain directly ahead, Talaos added, with sudden eagerness in his voice and heart, the one faint in the distance, that's it. The Old Peak.

Miriana beamed as others took notice of their distant goal.

Talaos smiled. He rode the mighty black horse called Honor, and it had hints of lightning in its eyes. His own no longer lit with power, except at the price of pain. In place of his besieged inner source, he had only his black and silver armor that fed him tastes of death, each and every time he called upon it.

But at this moment, he cared not.

There it was: the place where the great ones had met in the days when they ruled the earth. The place where his readings suggested his ancestor, the Storm Father, first and last of the gods, had died four thousand years ago.

After so many ages, what still stands atop that mountain? asked Katara thoughtfully. She rode alongside them in gear of war, with a chain shirt, round shield, and many weapons. Her golden braids trailed behind her as she rode expertly on her sturdy brown warhorse.

There are supposed to be ruins there, at least, replied old General Auretius, riding behind them. I'd read there was an expedition made during Imperial times, though the dangers of the mountains and the difficulty of the ascent make it possible no one has been there since.

Vulkas, at the front on a tremendous draft horse, took notice. He rode with reasonable comfort after the practice of recent months, and joined the discussion with his rumbling voice. I'm from a town called Palari not too far from here. South of Mileno. Another name we have for that place is the Peak of Nine. I never thought much about why. Nobody goes there. Too many wolves and Ferox.

The mention of Ferox caught the attention of several people. As well it might—with heads as high as a man’s lower chest, long hooked rending claws, and strength greater than any true wolf, the black-furred beasts were great and terrible foes. Talaos remembered his own battle against them in the high pass, what now seemed like a lifetime ago. He'd faced death alone that night.

No longer. He looked around him.

Before him rode his seven Madmen on six horses, with Firio seated behind Larogwan. Behind him were those he'd taken to calling the Three; Miriana, Sorya, and Katara. With them was Auretius, white hair blowing in the wind and twin swords gleaming pale in the fading sun. Last rode the fifty-three remaining Wolves, with Adrus at their head and lightning in the depths of their eyes. In all, Talaos thought, it was a formidable force for its size.

I don't think Ferox will be the worst of our worries, he said with a wolfish smile.

Oh, I might prefer it if they were, quipped Larogwan, considering the alternatives.

There were indeed alternatives, thought Talaos. Though in truth, it was hard to say what they might be. At the intersection of the great mountain ranges of Hunyos, the Republic, and old Dirion, the area where they were headed had always been exposed to events from all three.

He was now the effective leader of Hunyos, and the far northwestern region they'd passed through on their way here had never been home to more than a handful of the Prophet's believers. On the other hand, the stony upland in the northeastern corner of the Republic had been thinly populated even before the war with Dirion, and Dirion's armies had left it a wasteland. Things could be happening there and no one would likely notice or care.

Old Dirion itself, to the northeast of the mountains, was another matter entirely. Recent news was that unrest stirred in the shrunken, often-plundered cities of the east, with the old stock, descended from citizens of the Empire, ready to rise against their plainsmen kings and chieftains. It was said they’d been promised help by the distant plainsman king Khurvrik, who himself was consolidating his power across the vast open steppes, all the way to the eastern coast.

And Khurvrik had declared for the Prophet.

Ahead, the road began to wind and slope upward. The stands of trees grew closer together, and the forested hills loomed on either side. The river Hircon, which for miles had been at a distance to their left, now drew close. Along its banks further north stood a good-sized, fortified village atop a low hill

Talaos, who'd both read and asked around, knew of the place. It was called Bresik, and its people had a local reputation for being isolated, aloof, and even a bit strange. It was also the last village before the uninhabited high country.

His companions showed varying degrees of interest at the sight. Sorya in particular sat up in the saddle with sudden curiosity. Her black clothes were dusty from the road, but her eyes shone keen, observant, and bright. She smiled and turned to Talaos.

Tal, are you planning to stop there?

There are sixty-five of us, he replied. They probably won't have an inn able to handle our numbers for lodging or meals.

She nodded, though as if expecting more. Talaos suspected that however experienced she'd become with sleeping in camps, she hoped for some taste of civilization before their ascent into the high, uninhabited peaks. He paused for a while, and placidly watched ahead as they rode. She turned his way again, then back.

Though of course, he continued in suddenly lofty and grandiose tones, but with a wry smile on his lips, it would do well for them to see their new Imperator. In truth, for as much amusement as he’d had with her reactions, he’d already decided to stop here. Something in this place called to him, and he would find out what.

Sorya flashed him an arched look, but then her face brightened happily.

However, he knew they would need to do this the right way, and that came with a price.

All, Talaos announced, raising his right arm. Halt.

The column came to a dusty stop.

Bring them, he said to Firio.

The latter unrolled the bundle of his cloak and diadem as Imperator. Talaos drew the cloak about his shoulders and placed the diadem of thunderbolts upon his own head. As he did so, Larogwan unfurled Talaos's black and silver standard.

When it was ready, Talaos lit the lightning in his eyes. As he had to, he drew on the power of his armor, the spark of lightning aimed at his heart. He took the pain and focused his mind on the impression of power that needed to be made.

With tales that had spread across Hunyos and beyond, people expected the new Imperator, the Storm Lord, to have lightning in his eyes and at his command. They didn't and couldn't know he was severed from his true power. Far too much depended on what it inspired, at least for now. He had worked for months to build a new order of leaders, loyalties and armies that could stand on its own. As yet though, its roots were shallow, and its enemies had not been idle.

Atop the Old Peak, he intended to solve at least one problem. He would regain what was his, permanently.

They rode forward again, though now Larogwan and Firio rode beside Talaos, carrying the standard. They passed into the shadows of the mountains, as smoke rose from the chimneys of the village ahead.

Based on the number of fires and the extent of its wooden wall, Bresik was on the larger side, almost a town. Talaos guessed five hundred people or more. That the wall had watchtowers and a battlement was unusual in a place that size, but then, they were close to the mountains.

A muddy path ran from the road to a gatehouse with a sturdy log parapet sheltered by a roof of wooden planks. The gates themselves were of thick beams bound together by crossbars and iron braces. At the parapet stood a few guards in leather tunics and what might be their leader, a weathered, scar-faced man in a short chain shirt and an iron cap. The man watched them for a moment, then shouted down to others somewhere behind the gate.

As Talaos and his company rode to the gates, he could hear a great deal of commotion beyond them. The guards on the parapet were joined by others with a motley variety of gear and weapons. The man in the chain shirt took a long look at Talaos's eyes, then