Fire and Wings

Chapter One

So this is home, now. Iolande paused for a breath and a moment of reflection before she entered the red stone gate of Dragonspine. It was hot, even this close to the mountains, and the concealing robes were a mixed blessing. She pulled out the map of the city that Margaret had given her, and pored over the way to the temple of Bahamut. It was in the northeastern quarter of the city, nearly opposite the temple of the Allfather, as if the builders wished to be inconspicuous to whomever looked out the window of that edifice. She knew that the Allfather’s temple had been built after Bahamut’s, but the effect remained, and doubtless the priests of Bahamut were grateful. Ione had no temple at all; she was the sole emissary of the god of knowledge to this city. And what will one person accomplish, in this place?

The city was…quiet. Muffling, shapeless layers and hoods were common dress for men and women; the overall effect was of anonymity and hush, something like the feel of a library without the studious air. The temple of Bahamut echoed the martial nature of the church, with an enforced double gate and narrow windows at ground level, but at the second level was a stained glass window, dark from this angle outside. She could not make out many details, but the outline of wings was clear. The gate was closed at this hour, but a smaller door on the south wing had a guardian: a husky young man, surprisingly alert for this simple task, took her name and disappeared down the dim hallway glimpsed through the closing door.

“Iolande?” Margaret ducked around the door and looked up at her; her face was more lined than remembered, her hair grayer, but her brown eyes were still warm and her embrace was welcome in this strange place.

“Ah, my dear…I’m so glad you made it safe! Come in, we don’t need to be standing about here…” she ushered her indoors, past the lad who went back out to resume his station, and took her down a dim hall, past two turnings, and through the back of the central nave into brilliance. The stained glass was radiant from here, throwing fractured rainbows throughout the hall. Above the altar, the glowing white-silver of the great dragon’s wings were surrounded with whirling curves of blue and green, and the smaller figures beneath, dragon and human, were a riotous crowd of crimsons, violets, shining bronze and gold. Iolande slowed as she took in the vision, and Margaret paused with her, perhaps a bit proprietarily.

“We almost lost that, you know. Him in that temple—“ Her lips twitched as with something distasteful, “That Theiden, was talking about abolishing any images of the gods with some drummed-up fantasy, but we held firm, and enough of the people were unhappy that he shut up about it, for now…oh, sweetheart, you have not picked a safe place for your first mission.”

“That’s your fault you know…if I wasn’t known to have such a good friend as you here, I’m fairly certain I would have been turned down. That’s what you get for being my Margaret though; they know you won’t let me get too far out of my depth.”

“Hah! Well then, I suppose I’ll try to live up to your temple’s trust…under the protection of His wing. Come, come…” She led Iolande into the corridor of the cells, and her own, a small, bright space with an arrowslit window catching some of the reddening daylight and a bright oil lamp glowing over a small bed, an overstuffed chair and a desk piled with books. Next to the door, a short, thick mace hung on the wall, oakroot haft and well-oiled iron. On a whim, Iolande reached out and brushed her finger over the base of the handle, hung upwards; her finger came back clean.

Margaret had caught the gesture and was watching with a crinkled smile. “Of course I still practice, nosy; you think I'd forget what our purpose here is after I've gone gray?” Iolande grinned back at her.

“Just checking for new dents; wouldn’t want to think you’ve gone out of practice for smiting…many opportunities for that here?”

Margaret snorted. “Far too few, for my taste. It’s all…politics. Ugh! Vapors and phantasms and not an honest foe to be had. For all the real use that thing has seen it may as well be covered with dust by now…” She sighed. “Really, this is a bad place for us, too. It’s not the sort of fight I’m used to, that’s certain…I fear we’re losing ground through our very virtues, here. I hear that viper go on and on, twisting the world a little more every day with his tongue, and can I just give him a good crack on the head? No! It’s all waiting games, and hanging on…well, we can do persistence.”

Iolande felt a prickle of unease at her normally sanguine friend's agitation. She reached out and captured Margaret's hands. “Marga…tell me what I’m getting into here.”

“Well, kit, you know the history. The church of the Allfather is strong here, an upstart cult; we’ve never seen it anywhere else but in Dragonspine. Theiden has been here since the beginning, and people listen to him; I understand that he kept a lower profile a score and ten or so years ago, but he’s been consolidating, and gaining followers, and now he’s king in all but name…always careful; he’s never yet taken a step before its time, but he’s kept stepping. The church was finished eight years ago. The prison shortly after…never full, but people keep entering, for theft, simple crimes, but…other things, more recently. Blasphemy, and defamation, and crimes of thought more than deed; all justified with that slithery tongue, and people either nod along or are silent. We’ve protested, but he twists it and makes us sound like agitators, and it has been getting…difficult to protest. We were never that strong an outpost here, and half of us are more ministers than warriors. It has just been…slipping out of our hands.” Her own hands clenched for a moment, and she glanced at the mace on the wall a bit longingly.

“Haaaaah. So, Iolande, my fledgling, you’re a cleric of Ione, a god of freely shared knowledge, in a place where knowledge is being slowly stifled, where children are hardly taught to read anymore and those who can read will hide it from others; where the people are being led down a path that grows darker and darker as they withdraw from the light of reason…I am afraid for you in this place, my dear.”

Iolande cleared her dry throat. “Well, I was never in this for my ease; you know what I said to a home posting. But…I may need to rethink my approach.”

“Oh, child, you’re dry and I’ve been glooming at you instead of getting you fed and watered; here…” She pressed her into the overstuffed chair, grabbed a cup from the small table beside the bed and poured from a clay ewer beside it. Iolande raised it to her lips, found cool water, and gulped gratefully.

“Enough of this for now; let’s get you fed and settled; you are more than welcome at the temple table for dinner, and you can meet with the head of the chapter here; his name’s Ormus, I’ve told him all about you; everyone is looking forward to meeting you; after dinner you can bunk with me tonight; or if you’re wanting your own quarters there’s a good inn nearby, the Green Dragon, it’s clean, I’ve been there a time or two in the evenings and spoken with the innkeeper…your clothes are good, inconspicuous, though we need to talk more about that…”

The meal that evening was heaven to a person who had been on short rations and on foot for the last three days: thick ham and corn stew, flatbread, dandelion greens in hot dressing, goat milk, minted water and half-hard cider afterward. Iolande tried not to wolf her first helping; by the second, she felt recovered enough to do better justice to the eager chatter and inquiries. The two score or so sons and daughters of the Dragon were brightly welcoming; visitors of allied faiths had been getting thin on the ground the last few years, apparently, and introductions were shared all around; Iolande schooled herself to remember faces, names, and brief life stories of her near and not-so-near neighbors Ormus was a wiry old man, twinkling and obviously well-loved by the brothers and sisters. One thing about Bahamut’s order, she reflected, was that its members showed the benefits of a martial lifestyle; no curved spines from bookish habits in this crew. The husky boy from the gate was Danya, the youngest there at a score and three, a bit older than she for all his fresh-faced looks. At a lull in the conversation he leaned toward her from his place a few spaces down and across the table.

“You came from the city of the Canyon, right? The Noble Gorge? my brother is there, studying in the Iron Wing…Piedos, he’s just now fourteen. Perhaps you’d met him?” He had a shy smile, more in keeping with the teenager he appeared to be than a man grown.

“In the halls, maybe, not in the classes of course…you studied there too when you were younger, I’d assume?”

“Yes, but not as long as you did; I had my calling fairly early, and the teachers and I had learned that I wasn’t really meant for the books anyway…” He chuckled. She smiled back, but felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over her suddenly and gripped the table for balance. Margaret, at her right hand, noticed, and put a concerned arm around her.

“Tired, kit? Let’s get you to bed, and talk more in the morning. It’s been a long couple of days for you.” She rose obediently and gave goodbyes and thanks to the assembly; Danye waved, and she returned the gesture; his tan face brightened. This place can't be so bad if such a cheery fellow has kept up his spirits here...can it?

Margaret steered her back to her room, but Iolande picked up her pack, rather than collapsing on the floor. “Thank you so much, Marga, but I should get a room rather than snore in your ear…I don’t know if I could sleep yet, anyway; too much thinking to do.”

“Hah! That’s for true, though I’d bet you’d be asleep before you hit the floor if I pushed you over…but as you like, my dear, a soft feather mattress will do you a world of good.” She saw her to the small door, barred at night, and pointed her down the street. “First cross street, six buildings to the left on the south side, it’s a big sign…shall I come with you? I’ll run and get Danye so he can let me back in, it’ll be just a moment…”

“No Marga, go to bed; it’s no distance at all and it’s cool now, I’ll just enjoy the air. I’ll come back tomorrow morning. Oh—” She broke off and hugged Margaret, who clutched her back—“I’m so glad you’re here, it makes all the difference in the world to me.”

***

The Green Dragon Inn was busy, but not rowdy; Margaret had obviously done some careful checking before recommending a place, and Iolande silently blessed her. The big man behind the bar pulled a key from the wall in exchange for two silvers. “Last door on the left, upstairs. Breakfast begins at the sixth hour, luncheon at the eleventh, supper at the eighteenth; we still have roast mutton off the joint and soup if you’re wanting something…” She shook her head but smiled, and turned toward the stairs.

Tables were spaced throughout the first floor, mostly occupied; closest to the stairs sat four at one table. A tall, heavily muscled man with chain mail showing under his sleeves was throwing back a mug with vigor; the other three were more circumspect. Two had their hoods up; a slight man next to the tall one, hunched forward, with long, pale hands wrapped around a steaming cup, and a lean fellow in a dark gray cloak, with his head down. As she passed by, she caught a whiff of something…a sharp, metallic scent, like freshly forged iron or hot stone. She glanced over and saw a dark profile, thickly chiseled, and a flicker of a sidelong glance back from a narrow eye. The tall man smiled at her as he lowered his mug; he had a kind, open face, and she nodded back. The last man was tall also, but very thin, with long pale hair held back by a thick band around his forehead; he dismissed her with a glance and kept his gaze roving around the crowd; he didn’t look happy to be there.

Her room was small, but pleasant; a rope-frame bed holding a straw tick covered by a feather mattress, dark wood furniture, the scent of sun-dried sheets, lamp oil, and warm wood. She dropped her pack, unpinned Ione's Eye and rested it on the small table, and knelt, composing herself for evening prayer. The whirl of the day, the strangeness of this place, the prick of unease, planted weeks ago and watered by her most recent conversation...she brushed them out of her mind, feeling for the calm, echoing center from which she could perhaps hear a Voice.

She went through the catechism: "Ione, sower of the mind's riches, sharer of secrets, hail Thy purpose and Thy works; let my lips carry the Word embodied in many words, let my mind be as a river that carries others to Your shining sea." And upon what current will I carry others, now?

Even in her exhaustion, she found it hard to sleep. The sounds from downstairs distracted her, the room was still warm from the day, and her own thoughts spun like minnows chasing crumbs of recent memory--the red gate, Margaret's face, the temple window, great silver wings shedding light...she kicked the sheet into a knot around her legs before finally drifting into a doze.


A sharp crump of impact thumped through her chest. She spun dizzily into wakefulness and gazed up at the dark ceiling, disoriented. Light flickered across the beams from the window; a thin scream sounded outside. Rolling upright and leaning out the window she saw a roil of smoke, underlit with vivid colors unlike any flame she had seen, beyond the rise of buildings across the street. Fire? She grabbed her boots and shoved her bare feet into them, snatched her sigil and dashed downstairs; blurs of faces gaping as she flew by and then she was outside and moving fast.

Screams ahead, and pounding feet behind her; the tall, thin man she had seen earlier passed her. He was amazingly fast, almost blurring with speed as he pulled ahead down the street and turned at the corner. She cursed her loose boots and pounded behind him. More sounds of feet, others running behind her. She rounded the corner and saw the source of the light.

The great window of Bahamut's temple glared fiercely, lit from within by some source too large to be lamps or candles; smoke was rising from the clerestory windows. The tall man had stopped and was looking around, perhaps for an entrance; she hoped he planned to help rather than plunder--she tore around the side to the smaller door. It hung open; there was a crumpled figure just outside--Danye? Oh, no--

It was Danye, or had been; he was bonelessly limp, blood pooling beneath him. His head rolled too loosely when she checked for a pulse. A shock of ice drove through her chest, but she stood again and dashed for the water butt at the corner of the building; time to grieve when she had a count for grief. Some god smiled, or at least curled an ironic lip; there was still a few inches of water in the barrel. She ripped a swatch of cloth from her hem, dunked it in the water, tied it around her nose and mouth, and headed for the door again. Passing Danye, she felt a brief moment of clarity: he did not die by fire. What, then? Be wary, woman. Under the panic, caution bloomed, and she paused at the door to listen. Filtered by the stone, she heard voices--sobs, calls, but no sounds of fighting.

The hall was almost dark; dim light flickered ahead, but little smoke made it down the hall. She almost tripped over a dark hump that resolved into another body; groping for signs of life, she found far too much wetness, still flesh torn beyond recovery--she swallowed back bile and kept moving toward the light.

She peered around the corner of the transept. The cathedral was no longer the peaceful haven of her recent memory. Beneath the haze of smoke, she made out wreckage and disorder. The altar--massive, constructed of a mottled pink granite--had been somehow smashed, the altar cloths tossed away in piles, and several pews were charred and smoking. Mercifully, whatever fires had been set had faded before reaching the flash point, and the smoke was rising out through the clerestory windows, open at this time of year. The oil lamps next to the altar had been spilled and broken, and a large puddle on the stone floor was still alight, an oddly cheerful glow in this scene. She stepped forward, vision resolving. Some of the piles were not just cloth, but bodies, and the ice bit through her heart again. She wanted to scream for Margaret, but feared to add panic to this scene, or worse, to call and get no answer.

A few people were already there before her, gaping in shock or kneeling next to one or another of the still forms; as she paused she felt others come up behind her. The big fellow from the inn stepped up next to her, his expression much changed from the affable drinker he had seemed earlier. His swift companion was already in the room, and now held a crossbow, aimed downward with an arrow nocked. With a glance at his companion and a nod, he headed toward the other hall, the way to the cells. He looked prepared for any lingering threat, but she fingered her sigil uneasily, caught between following him and checking the fallen in this room to see if any could be aided.

"Bahamut's temple, attacked...what madness is this?" The big man was gazing around with an expression of almost childlike horror. Behind him, the slight man limped around the corner, one hand pressed to his side. Half-hidden by his hood, he looked up at her, panting; his eyes were a startling crimson in an alabaster-pale face. She found herself staring, unsettled, and her hand reflexively tightened around her sigil; but if this man was a demon in disguise, it was a very convincing one. He was obviously unwell.

She tore her gaze away--she must be in shock, to be distracted by a strange face at a time like this--and yanked the wet cloth down from her mouth. "I have no idea. Please--help me look for survivors. I can help those who still live--" she turned toward the nearest of the crumpled forms, but a middle-aged fellow in common dress was bent over the body; she heard the half-choked sobs and knew there was nothing she could do there.

"Iolande! Oh, Iolande!" She startled, and looked toward the cry. From the hallway into the cells, Margaret staggered toward her, lines of blood freely running down one half of her face.

"Marga!" She ran to her, and caught her in an embrace; the older woman was shuddering in slow waves that shook her stout frame. "Oh, Marga, sit down, you're bleeding, let me look at you--" She guided her to one of the unburnt pews and half-frantically sought the source of all the blood. Near the crown of Margaret's head was raised goose egg, split in the middle and bleeding profusely. "What happened to you--to all of you? Sit still..." This she could do something about. She placed a hand on the bruise, fingers splayed around the cut, and held Ione's Eye with the other. The inward prayer echoed in her head; she had rarely done this before, and the flush of warmth that rushed down her arm was a shock; behind the flow of heat her body felt colder. Under her fingers she felt the egg-sized lump recede. The bleeding stopped as the gash scabbed over. Margaret straightened a bit, but still shuddered; Iolande sat next to her and wrapped the smaller woman in her arms to try to share her own warmth.

"Oh kit, sweet child, thank the Dragon that you weren't here, oh, it was...it was a horror..." She curled against Iolande's chest and wept, harsh sobs racking her frame. Iolande held her, rocking back and forth, and looked around the cathedral; a few other clerics had made it into the room and were straightening the dead, or holding one another, or gazing blankly into space. Ormus had survived, if that was the old man standing despondent before the broken altar; she saw only slumped shoulders, shuddering with soundless weeping, and a bowed gray head. As she watched, the pale man came up beside him and spoke in a low voice; she could not hear what he said, but Ormus turned to him and responded.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up; the big man was behind the pew; he squeezed her shoulder for a moment before pulling away. "Milady, you know those here? I saw you heal--shall I bring the injured to you?"

She pulled herself out of the floating numbness that was trying to take her. "Yes...yes, please. What is your name?"

"Thaddeus, lady. And that is my brother Apothis," he gestured toward the pair before the altar, "he's probably finding out what happened, and the fellow who came in with us is Thrak...where did he go...I'll go look for people who need help, and bring them here." He nodded firmly, as if pleased to have sorted out what to do, and turned away.

Margaret was calming; the shudders were less, and her sobs were receding into half-gulped, stuttering breaths. Iolande pulled away just enough to see her face; pulled the wet rag from around her neck and wiped at the blood crusting her forehead and cheek. The touch of cold seemed to help, and she took a deep breath, then sat up straight, some semblance of control regained. Iolande kept wiping, in case other wounds were hidden under the gore.

"Can you tell me what happened, Marga? Please?"

"Well. I was asleep, and woke up. There was...something just felt wrong. I went out into the hall and met Danye; he had awakened too; he went to check the side door and I went to awaken others; Johann, in the cell next to mine, went with a few others into the cathedral while I was rousing Ormus...I didn't hear anything, but when I followed, I saw...horrible things, like men, but....twisted, some large, some small; they had already killed the others who had come out. I don't know why I didn't hear them...one must have seen me as I turned to go get my mace and warn the others; I was hit, and fell...I must have been knocked out. I woke up with someone shaking me, some fellow I didn't recognize; he said others were here and I came out to see...and here you were." She slowly shook her head. "I'm trying to remember...in the hall, I heard nothing; it wasn't until I was in the nave itself that I saw those things, and heard them...some language, if it was language, that I'd never heard before...and the smell, and the shrieking..." She broke off and started to shiver again.

"Shhh. Shhh." Iolande wrapped an arm around her. "Before I came here, I heard...something, or felt it...like thunder from a lightning strike. Did you hear something, before you were hurt? Do you know what it was? The altar...?" She looked toward the sanctuary, where the shattered remains lay. The pale man--Apothis--was alone in front of the ruin now, head bent as if in prayer or contemplation.

"The...oh, great Dragon, no, no--" Margaret shot up, then almost fell over again, wide-eyed and distraught. "They took it! His banner, they...they stole His banner! The filth, the evil, the--" Iolande, holding her by the shoulders, felt her almost thrumming with tension, shading into rage.

"What did they take? Banner? What do you mean?" Iolande couldn't remember seeing any banners, flags, or tapestries earlier; she glanced up, wondering, but brought her attention back to Margaret.

"His banner, His beacon of war. We kept it in the altar, and they...they desecrated it, and stole the banner, and now what will they do with it? Such power..."

Just then, she saw Thaddeus and...Thrak, was it?...returning from the cells; there must not have been any with great injuries, or all those who had fought must have been killed. Almost all. Briefly, she wondered where their fourth was, the dark one. Behind Thrak came several more clerics, looking dazed.

"These were still asleep. Some sort of spell, perhaps...you h--ah, your priests have little resistance, I suppose."

Margaret stiffened, and her chin came up; a flash of the woman who kept her weapon in trim came to the fore. "Perhaps, sir. But I would worry about the source of such magic rather than the strength of the victims." She went forward and met with the others.

The chaos seemed to have passed; the priests of Bahamut still remaining began to take charge of their own. In the retreat from rage and fear Iolande began to wonder about the complete absence of the attackers; had no one running to the church seen any sign of inhuman things departing? Had such creatures not taken advantage of the sleeping city and violated any other home or stronghold? Unease at more than the initial chaos of events began to worry at her. And what had awakened her, after all? The noise of the alter being destroyed? But there had been no other sign before that, and surely she, or someone, would have heard the chaos of attack...

She began to aid with moving the bodies into the center of the room, then recalled the entrance, and went down the hall, first to find the savaged body, then further, to see about Danye. Whatever had invaded must have done so through that door, or he would have been further inside when slain, but there was nothing, no sign of how he could have been surprised, though the door was not forced. She paced around the entirety of the church, looking for something she could not name, but in vain. The walled cemetery to the northeast was quiet. Soon this place will be more full. The thought bit like a thorn.

Rounding the wall, she saw a group of people clustering by the main entrance, townspeople or parishioners, agitated, talking or crying out in loud voices. Something made her glance at the alley she had passed through on her way here. A flicker of movement caught her attention. A hooded figure was standing within the rim of shadow there; her gaze may have passed over him if he hadn't moved suddenly, glancing up at her, then back down. Something about that movement seemed familiar. Ah, here is the fourth. On a whim, she made her way toward him, and could tell when he saw her by the half-concealed startle and beginning of a retreat into the darkness of the alley, but she kept her gaze on him and her step forthright, and he stopped.

"You...I saw you earlier, at the inn. Your friends are inside. Why are you out here?" Perhaps a little blunt, and he may not have recognized her at all, but the events of the evening made her short.

"Friends?" A rough voice, used hesitantly. He looked up briefly and she caught a bit more of his face this time--broad cheeks, a heavy brow, thick boned. No chance of seeing what color his eyes were in this dim light. That scent was still there, faint, but strange. She should be suspicious, but somehow couldn't manage to fear this man; something about him said shy, not sly.

"Are they your friends? I saw you sitting at the same table earlier, at the inn. Thaddeus, Apothis, Thrak, yes? And here you are, though not in the church with them."

"No. Just...waiting for them. Can't...didn't want to go in. You...you were in the inn earlier. Not in the church? Aren't you one of them?"

"I am not Bahamut's, no. Just a friend of some who are. Since you were out here...did you see anything strange? Any sign of what came here?"

"No, didn't see anything." He seemed about to say more, then stopped. "Sorry."

"Nothing at all..." She regarded him a moment. If he were lying, what manner of persuasion could she, a stranger, use? And what likelihood that he would lie, for all his hesitancy? She sighed. "Well. Let us hope that there is something that can be found in all this chaos."