#Mikel Czern

[sunset-campaign]

Constata and the Body

Constata Onare let Neron’s Fang clatter to the ground. As she collapsed, the shocked mass of onlookers—come to see her Santed, for Primus’ sake—first stared in disbelief, then recoiled in horror.

She had come to the horrible conclusion slowly over the last decade. At first, like everyone, she held faith. He was smarter than she would ever be. He could see more. He was the Lord God.

Who was she? A nobody he had lifted to the highest heights.

Then she returned from the Holy War, her faith shaken as the mad Krayer attempted to convince her to “right a cosmic injustice,” pleaded with her to leave him to serve his mad old gods and, finally, begged her to spare his life.

The scene still haunted her months later, when she delivered her report to the Lord God.

Surely he had seen everything. The report was just a formality—a test to see what she might omit, perhaps. She had reported, as always, completely and factually.

“It must have felt good,” the Lord God mused, “to put down such a heretic and traitor. Truly, you are deserving of the honors to be bestowed upon you.”

She had thanked him, praised his name perfunctorily, and left when he indicated the audience was over.

The exchange had kept her awake that night. The Lord God couldn’t see her shaken faith, her pity for poor, mad Mikel Czern and his equally mad old gods.

The Lord God hadn’t even seen that Czern would come to serve his old enemies.

If he couldn’t see the hearts of his most favored servants, how could he see those with true evil in their hearts? How could he have a divine plan if he couldn’t even reliably predict what the pieces on his grand Tac-board might do?

She resolved to give her faith one final chance. The test was simple—Primus had trusted her to wield the only weapon that could possibly kill a god, in case Mikel had raised some ancient horror from the Well of Low Gods, and then the Lord God had given her reason after reason to doubt him.

So she would strike during the ceremony. If it had been a test of her faith, he would not die. She already knew Santhood was not for her—not with these thoughts in her head. Her life would be forfeit, but she would die knowing the world truly was in the hands of a just and wise deity.

Now, she crumpled before the body.

Her squire, Arkadi, fairly grinned as he ran to the divine corpse. He laughed as he propped it up and made it wave to the onlooking crowd. She had not expected to break his mind further, the poor fool.

She braced herself. When the crowd tore her apart, she would bend to their justice not for the sake of Primus Solerian, but for a broken stableboy named Arkadi Sidd.

[sunset-campaign]

Arkadi at the Well

Arkadi Sidd stared into the Well of Low Gods, where their influence could still be felt, unable to recall the words he needed to speak.

Since he was a young man, since that awful incident in the stable, he had grasped for words in vain. He would hear others speak, so easily, and he understood the words as they passed his ear. Yet, even repeating them back proved challenging most days.

Once, he’d had a gift for words. He had hoped, given his low birth, he might find a patron who recognized his talent—one who could send him to the Ninth College to hone his craft.

Those days were gone. No one would waste a prestigious education on Arkadi Horse-Kicked. Few enough recognized he could still think at all.

Constata Onara, Lord-General of the Holy War, was one of those. He wasn’t sure how she had seen past the damaged, mumbling wretch before her, or why she had decided to take him on, but he had known instantly that he had to join her. He knew she would take him where he needed to be.

As the legions marched west across the snow and ice, Arkadi had made a discovery—while the words he’d known as a child were lost to him, he could recall the commands Onara issued and repeat them without fail.

“Why are the sounds, uh-uh-uh, saying-things… why are they different?”

“Why do we issue orders in Draconic?”

Arkadi nodded.

“It’s a convention from before Sunset. There were more languages back then, and you couldn’t be sure a general spoke the same tongue as all those under their command. So, all soldiers were taught a few words in draconic. I couldn’t tell you why they chose Draconic, but that’s how the tradition started. Why do you ask?”

“Karka thana! Berokk i mamn! Batanat khort!” Arkadi could feel himself beaming as he spoke the words. “Draconic! I said it! I can think, uh-uh-uh, know, uh-uh, say more? From you.”

“You want me to teach you Draconic?”

Arkadi nodded again.

“I think we can arrange that.”

So, in addition to running messages to the various Lords of the Holy War, polishing the Lord-General’s armor, and sharpening her sword, Arkadi had a new task—learning Draconic.

The Holy War was over now. Constata had defeated the Krayer, Mikel Czern, and retaken Firestorm Keep in the name of Primus Solerian.

The keep was named after the phenomenon that surrounded the Well of Low Gods, which it had been erected to safeguard from any would-be Krayer—an emissary of gods long dead. The knights stationed there, chosen for their loyalty to the Lord God Primus, were only allowed that duty a few years at a time, lest the whisperings of the dead old gods drive them to madness and heathenry.

Apparently, these measures had not been enough to keep Czern’s devotion intact. The knight, in thrall to the Low Gods, ordered his subordinates to pray by the well, “that Primus’ light may once again silence the voices emanating from within.” One by one, they too fell under the corruptive influence of the primal deities.

The few remaining knights spoke of a boon granted for their corruption. One, admitting to drunkenness, said he no longer had need of spirits. Another—an aged knight by the name of Kaler—claimed he could now spar with his youngest comrades and win!

So Arkadi stared into the Well.

sssssppppeeeeeaaaaakkkk

“I wish to—“ He paused a second, realizing the words were flowing. “I wish to regain the use of my tongue. I want to speak as I used to. Not just in Draconic. I want to be able to talk to my brothers and sisters as they speak to me, to have them understand me as I do them.”

you would serve usss?

He has no choice, a second voice said, the gift is given. We replaced the damaged pieces of you, Arkadi Sidd, with pieces of us. You are bound to us.

i want to hear him say it.

SAY IT! a third voice demanded.

Arkadi cried tears of joy as he proclaimed, “I will serve you. I will! Until my last breath, and beyond! I will serve only—“

ENOUGH! the voices commanded as one.

Rise, Krayer Arkadi Sidd. Serve your Lord-General. We have seen where her path leads. When her work is done, we shall call on you.