For the Priest Who Trembles

Описание: The Priest in red sat atop his destrier and looked down. He reached his hand out to calm his noble warhorse, though he only felt the steel of the crinet. His breathing was labored. His chest, tight. The gray world stretched before him, filled with legions dressed in grimy iron. He’d had a lunch of cheese and wine—special for the red priests—and it burned when it came up. His hand shook when he lit his red tallow. He closed his eyes to pray. but for the first time, nothing came. His mind was a blank void, somehow a part of the cosmos but separated from it like oil on water—a black space that could think of nothing except the sloping hill and the battle ahead.

He opened his eyes and squinted. How long had he had sat in the dark of those lids, in fevered attempts at prayer? The sun burned pale orange through gossamer clouds of gray. He leaned forward and let his gaze fall to that fortress below. the cause of the crusade: Manifold Keep.

This war was much to do with prayer.

The green priests had prayed to Rauwt and lit the green tallow when the army's march began years ago. They’d prayed for good weather, good crops at home, and for rot to be warded from provisions.
The blue priests had prayed to Rime and lit the blue tallow when they’d laid siege. They’d prayed for the hands of the craftsmen to be cunning, for battlements to be sturdy, and for trebuchets to be deadly.

Now it was his turn to pray. With his Red brothers he was to pray to Passion. They were lined up, each on a destrier and girded in the vestments of war. They prayed for victory in their violence and the violence of their soldiers.

But the words would not come to him. Numb he sat. And the sun burned hotter.

He cursed his hollow prayers. He found no purchase to raise his mind and soul to heaven, so it remained in his body, quaking still. He gripped the reins tight and his vision blurred as he surveyed the multitude of soldiers in vibrant coats and turned again to Manifold Keep below.

There!

From the gates!

A host of violence assembled to rival their own! Horse and sword and passion alike!
Behind the priest, the kings of the multitude milled about on coursers, each horse and king alike dressed in regal caparisons of splendid color and sigil. They ate spiced venison, drank rich wines, and talked fervently of their common cause: Death to the Debtor King.

And woe to those whose debt is collected! Woe to those near and far when the Usurer Lord collects his due!

And a cry went up: “To war! To war! To war! For the three Gods, true! Seperate in their interest! Holy in their intent! Death to the Manifists!”

And the charge began.

The priest found his destrier surging with the throng, the kings on coursers at the rear giving rallying cheers. The Debtor King rode out in defiance, his heretical host swift behind. The clash was thunderous. The priest looked about, nearly blind. Torrential was the red, and fierce was the battle, and in the chaos, the Priest could not grasp who called The Cost first: the Debtor King, those fleeing princes, or himself. It was chaos—sudden lightning flashed, fire grew, and ice cascaded.

He was lost in red.

He called on Passion, Rime, and Rauwt; he gave every page in his Book of Life and knew in a numbed stupor that others did the same.
The smell.
The sound.

He knew for sure that there were no gods in heaven. For how could they allow this?
Bodies were consumed by magic and man alike, and the tide of violence flowed free. The powers of the cosmos tallied no blows to sides, but only took, and took, and took. As the frenzy rose to a cacophonic state, the screams and the thunder became one. The priest slashed indiscriminately down from his mount, nearly blind from tears, fright, and flashing light.

And the gods he’d been so certain were absent made themselves known.

A black foot descended from heaven.
The priest screamed.
It touched gracefully down in brilliant light, turning all the land to black glass.
Prismatic flame.
Obsidian, thick and flowing, then frozen.
Angelic eyes of single intent glanced across the battlefield, seeking the debtor’s due. The few who lived fell and screamed and trembled, cursing Passion, Rime, and Rauwt alike.

They cursed The Cost, and the Debtors more!
The angels' departure brought no respite.
The ground remained black; the multitude, dead.

And the priest realized with misery that he still lived.
He tasted iron and ash in his mouth as he raised his head and saw nothing but black glass.

For everything done, something must be given.

This is The Cost.

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Music and story of human hand alone. Image of AI