4.7 - The Four Virtues — Burning Glass

“Compassion is the first virtue of Ysoprasus.”

Irfan stood guard as Drika, the priestess in charge, prayed over the wagon full of prisoners. She was kneeling on the padded leather bench behind the coach driver’s seat, clutching the bars of the wagon with her eyes tightly shut. All fourteen prisoners sat bound and gagged, some listening to her prayer, others paying her no mind. The wagon trudged forward surrounded by Irfan and five of his finest Moiraspida, the most unyielding guild of mercenaries across The Barge of Souls. Two of them would do just fine for a request of this nature, but the abbey had specifically requested and paid for a dispatch of six, so Irfan obliged. Only a fool would let that much coin slip by for such a simple job. To his south, Irfan could see the vanishing treetops of Gidaea’s Forest, and to the north the perpetual billowing smoke of Tumo Krasis, the midland city of industry and self-destruction. Luckily, they were headed east, to the very edge of the forbidden central kingdom. The Cup of Benediction was built before The Collapse. Before the fourteen kingdoms of the Barge of Souls were dissolved and became one. It stood in defiance of it all, refusing to yield. Dozens of monks and priestesses were killed, and yet the abbey survived the monstrous swell, beyond all odds.

“Patience is the second virtue of Ysoprasus, my dear wayward scions.” Drika continued.

Irfan turned his attention to the Moiraspida he brought with him. Leading the caravan were Faiza and Domonkos. Faiza, a san renomo like Irfan, adorned her horns with spirals of shimmering paint that glinted in the midday sun. Strapped to her back were two razor-thin dueling blades. Irfan had never seen a more talented wielder of the blade than Faiza. She could make a surgeon jealous.

Domonkos was the lone Carshgan of the Moiraspida Irfan had brought with him. The other Carshgan Moiraspida were assigned jobs with which they may remain beneath the moonlight, while Irfan and the Saorin half handled the day. Domonkos took work where he could find it, insisting that it didn’t matter. The only indication of his discomfort was a heavy gray veil he wore attached to his wide-brimmed hat. Strapped to his belt were four spell quivers, each one filled to the brim with tightly tied spell scrolls. Irfan knew that Domonkos had never been a mage, or even stepped foot in a guild building, and yet he could scribe and cast as well as any trained mage Irfan had ever known. Irfan wasn’t one to pry, so he only asked once how Domonkos had learned the ways of the mages. The Carshgan said “They do not teach the only way to cast or scribe. They teach ways with which they may scare the rest of us away.”

Marietta walked far behind the caravan with a creature stalking on either side of her. Most employers tended to be unsettled by her companions, so she often took the role of the rear guard. She raised them from pups after finding them in the ruins of a farming outpost near the southern coast. They prowled on all fours like wolves, but they looked more akin to lizards than anything. Their hide was made up of tough red scales that arrows harmlessly clattered off of. Along the length of their backs was a raised ridge with jet-black peaks as sharp as any blade. Irfan had seen firsthand what those ridges could do to a man in combat. Most folks called them siege wolves, but to Marietta, they were Polos and Acrieta.

“The third virtue of Ysoprasus is Conviction,” Drika’s voice wavered for a moment as the wagon bumped down a small hill.

“Apologies, priestess,” Nasrikonda called back from the driver’s seat. “It seems quite some time has passed since the road crews made it out this way. It’s rather unkempt.”

One of only two irilocs in the Moiraspida, Nasrikonda was primarily a driver and cartographer. His golden-brown sledgehammer resting on the seat next to him sported three heavy dents from when his hand was forced, but beyond that, he left the fighting to the rest of them. He appeared as relaxed as ever. His black fur-covered arms loosely gripped the reins and rested effortlessly at his side. Irfan knew he was concentrating on the road by the pulsing violet light coming from the indents in his head. They would always thin into more purposeful streaks when he was immersed in a task. Irfan did not envy him on this journey. Calling the road unkempt was a kindness only an iriloc was capable of. The wide-open southern plains were subject to furious windstorms and floods, causing the road to be littered with divots, pools of stagnant water, overgrown plant life, even manmade debris blown southward from Tumo Krasis. The Cup of Benediction was all that was left for many miles in any direction, so there was very little incentive to maintain the road in any meaningful way. Instead, a masterful driver like Nasrikonda was needed to navigate the treacherous pathways and keep the horses safe along the way.

“The fourth and final virtue of Ysoprasus is Generosity,” Drika continued. “To give what matters most is to bear one’s self to Ysopra and feel the fervor of one’s vulnerability reflected back upon them. Let it wrap you, and consume you, for the humanity of it shall see you well in lives beyond.”

The last of the Moiraspida Irfan had brought, and the one riding alongside him was Redoubt. They were born with the name Ziya, and some employers still called them by it. To anyone who mattered, however, they went by Redoubt. Strapped to their horse were two small kite shields, emblazoned with the face of an otherworldly being. Redoubt never struck an enemy in combat. In fact, Irfan had never seen them so much as step on a flower. What they were more than capable of doing, however, was providing opportunities, and preventing harm. Even beneath the weight of two shields, they moved like water in battle, effortlessly flowing from one companion to the next, ready to block a barrage of arrows or push through a narrow opening. It was difficult for even Irfan to fully appreciate the impact that someone like Redoubt provided when a situation turned. What he could appreciate was that each and every Moiraspida around the caravan, himself included, owed their lives to Redoubt a dozen times over.

“If you want, I can have Nasrikonda sketch a portrait of me,” Redoubt said. “That way you won’t have to stare so much. You could keep it close to your heart. Maybe lay it on your bedside table at home.”

Irfan quickly sat up straight in his saddle, turned his attention ahead, and cleared his throat.

“Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere,” he said.

“I’m sure it was,” Redoubt responded with a wry smile. “Care to tell me where?”

“Soaring overtop of The Barge of Souls. Looking down on a disquieting future that is swiftly setting upon us.”

Redoubt nudged their horse slightly closer to Irfan’s, and lowered their voice.

“So you feel it too?”

“Like a presence at my back, creeping ever closer.” It was the first time he had put the feeling into words.

“Did you hear what happened in Gliss?” Redoubt asked. “Things got ugly. Uglier than they’ve ever been. People are saying some great beast appeared from the sky and devoured the ones killing each other.”

It was a story Irfan would typically wave away, but in recent weeks, he had heard multiple tales of a similar nature. Whispers of strange beasts appearing where conflict was at its peak.

“We need to be doubly prepared here,” he said. “Whatever it is that’s conspiring, I’m fearful that the central kingdom is in some way connected to it.”

The Cup of Benediction stood before them, in all of its dilapidated glory. It was made entirely of sandstone shipped inland from the southern coast. It held strong, but chunks of the walls and parapets were missing from the harsh weathering of the plains. The abbey stood on a solitary hill overlooking the western boundary of the central kingdom.

“Welcome home priestess,” Nasrikonda said as he gingerly pulled the wagon to the front gate of the abbey.

Irfan dismounted and approached the gate, keeping one hand on a small concealed blade at his hip. He glanced back at Drika.

“Is there a password to open this?”

The priestess smiled at him but said nothing.

From beneath his veil, Domonkos’ heavy voice boomed towards Drika.

“Answer the question, holy worker.”

Her smile faded, and she turned her attention to Domonkos.

“They will open the gates when they are ready. Do not be impatient.”

One of the prisoners yelped as Marietta approached with Polos and Acrieta following close behind. Polos growled at the man, but Marietta made a snapping sound, and the siege wolf immediately turned away and loped around to Marietta’s other side.

“Irfan, what’s happening?” she called.

“We’re waiting.” he called back, then with one hand, he tapped two fingers to his temple. The Moiraspida had a collection of hand signals for their time in the field, but that was the most common one. It meant their employer was holding things up. Marietta briefly smiled, then turned her back to the group waiting at the gate and took up a position watching the fields behind them with Polos and Acrieta.

Redoubt and Faiza walked along the walls to either side of the gate, keeping their eyes on the parapets for movement. Drika was the last one to have been in or out of The Cup of Benediction as far as Irfan knew, and she had been away for months. The state of the abbey was completely unknown to any of them. After five unsettling minutes of silence, an older man in a gray habit shuffled to the gate and peered through it at Irfan.

“How may I serve you today?” he asked.

“Good afternoon elder,” Irfan nodded his head. “We’re here escorting one of your own home. Drika is back with a wagon of downtrodden who have decided to work off their debt within your walls. We have been traveling since sunup and would be delighted to rest for a spell, would you mind lifting the gate?”

The monk showed a renewed interest in the caravan and strained to see around the wagon.

“I only see four of you. We requested a dispatch of six.”

Irfan’s patience was already beginning to wear thin. “There are six of us, elder. The other two are keeping the perimeter safe.”

The monk nodded, and without another word turned around and shuffled into the gatehouse. Another minute passed before the gate slowly creaked upward.

“Redoubt! Faiza!” Irfan called them back to the caravan and nodded to Nasrikonda. The iriloc tugged on the reins ever so slightly and the two horses neighed and pulled forward, inching the heavy wagon into the open square of the abbey. As soon as Marietta cleared the gate with her pets, it began to shudder closed behind them. Domonkos twirled a scroll loose from his belt and whispered an incantation into it before casting it into the air toward the gate. As the paper evaporated, a large golden creature appeared beneath the gate. It stood like a man, but its head was that of a ram, and four large arms protruded from its sides. It grasped the gate with all four arms, stopping its momentum completely. The gate mechanisms in the walls made a harsh grinding sound, then stopped as whoever was operating it clearly gave up.

“The gate stays open,” Domonkos said.

“My colleague is right, I’m afraid,” Faiza said to Drika, who looked ready to admonish them. “Our contract clearly states that no gates or doors shall be closed behind us without our express consent.”

The priestess rapidly composed herself and flashed a brief smile at Faiza.

“Of course, my dear. The gate shall remain open.”

Faiza returned the smile with one of her own and stepped over to Irfan. She brushed by him, touching his hand briefly. Her thoughts were projected into his mind, an old san renomo trick. It required a heavy focus going from a san renomo to a human or an iriloc, but between two san renomo it was as easy as speaking.

All the windows on the second floor are covered. There is a heavy contraption rigged to the gate at the back of the square that seems to have it locked in place. I don’t like this.

Irfan looked at her and scratched his pointer finger across his chin then placed his thumb to his mouth. A hand signal meaning “stay close and watch the doorways.” Drika, with the assistance of Redoubt and Nasrikonda, had unloaded the prisoners from the wagon and was leading them towards a wide stairwell framed with an arch covered in labyrinthine carvings. The old monk Irfan had spoken to at the gate shuffled over, glaring over his shoulder at the golden creature who had prevented him from doing his job.

“Elder, I have a question,” Irfan said. “These prisoners, what exactly will they be doing here?”

The monk smiled at Irfan the way an adult smiles at a child.

“All are worthy of second chances, and here at the Cup of Benediction we see to it that those chances are proffered willingly and ignorant of bias. These lost ones will sip from the Cup as long as they need to reflect on the paths they wrongfully chose, and find new ones that may erase past mistakes. By all means, come up with us and we will happily show you their new lives here.”

The monk motioned for Irfan to follow and headed for the stairwell, filing in behind the row of prisoners. Irfan moved to Domonkos’ side and leaned close to the veil covering the man’s face.

“You and Marietta stay here, and on guard,” he whispered. “Whatever you do, do not let that gate drop.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Domonkos said. “Polos!” he whistled to the siege wolf who loped towards him. Domonkos was the only other Moiraspida to who Polos and Acrieta would answer. Polos took up position next to him with his body low and ridges along his back standing straight up, a stance Irfan had seen many times. The siege wolf was ready for blood if it came to it.

Irfan headed for the stairs and motioned to Nasrikonda, Redoubt, and Faiza. Seamlessly the three Moiraspida filed in behind him and moved up the stairwell. It smelled of wet stone, dust, and the body odor of the prisoners ahead of them. They reached a landing and Drika led them around the corner to a large iron door. The elder shuffled ahead, squeezing past the prisoners. He reached inside his robe and withdrew a bronze key the size of a dagger. He unlocked the door and heaved it open, filling the landing with a loud screeching noise as the door dragged along the stone floor. Drika walked forward into the dimly lit room with the prisoners close behind her. The elder monk stayed at the door, head bowed. Irfan caught Nasrikonda’s eye and nodded his head toward the monk. Nasrikonda nodded in silent understanding, then positioned himself in the doorway holding his golden sledgehammer. As soon as they were all in the room, the monk looked up only to see Nasrikonda’s smiling face, his bald head gently pulsing with violet light. The slower the light pulsed, the more on edge an iriloc was, and Nasrikonda’s light pulsed very slowly.

“We welcome holiness in all its forms, here at the Cup of Benediction,” Drika said, now towards the back of the long rectangular room. Just as Faiza had said, the windows were covered with heavy canvas, creating a nearly pitch-black room, save for a few braziers on the walls, sputtering low flames. “The greatest of all forms is that of sacrifice.”

“Priestess,” Irfan growled. “Do not do something you will regret. You hired us for a specific job, of which we have completed. Do not think we will stand by idly while you cause harm to these people.”

“Harm?” Drika asked. “We are curators of freedom, my dear mercenary. We unbind these people from the shackles of their poisoned minds and bodies in service of the gods amongst us. Unfortunately, there simply weren’t enough prisoners this time. Six short in fact. You see, our gods are very, very hungry.”

The priestess grasped a lever on the wall and pulled it. Six panels in the ceiling dropped open, three on either side and from each panel, a creature fell. The elder monk behind them made a frightened cry and tried desperately to close the door. Nasrikonda sighed, and turned his sledgehammer around in his hand, then used the handle to knock out the monk.

“Ysopra forgive me, if he is still one of yours,” the iriloc said.

The prisoners were still bound and gagged in the center of the room, and began to panic, looking back and forth at the creatures in piles around them. The creatures were tangled together and unmoving. They were humanoid, with arms three times longer than normal and sickly white skin. One began to move, accompanied by a sound like tearing parchment. It pulled itself up, towering above the prisoners. Where a face should be was nothing but cracked skin. Slowly, features began to swirl together in a disgusting churn. Between its legs was another creature, moving independently. It had talons that were planted in the skin of its host and a large beak beneath wide gray featureless eyes. One prisoner turned and tried to run towards the Moiraspida, but with alarming speed, the creature reached a long arm out and grabbed the man by the head. Irfan took two hidden blades from his belt and with the same hand, threw them at the head of the creature. Before it could harm the man, the blades pierced through its head, still a swirling mess of features. The creature between its legs raised its beak and opened it, ejecting an ivory spike at Irfan. In the blink of an eye, Redoubt was in front of him with one shield up. The spike shattered into the shield, disintegrating to pieces at their feet. The swirling head of its host dissolved into gray smoke, quickly followed by the rest of it. As it did, the other five creatures pulled themselves up from the floor.

“You have made a grave mistake, priestess,” Irfan said.

Drika barely seemed to notice him. She stared in awe at the creatures, then fell to her knees and began bowing to them. Faiza leaped into action as two of the creatures barreled toward the prisoners. She drew both blades from her back and made quick work of one of them, slicing its arms clean off followed by its head. The other let out a disturbing cry, like a man in the throes of death, and swung an arm into Faiza. It knocked her off her feet and set her colliding into the wall. She howled in pain as the creature careened towards her, using its long arms to propel itself forward. It was in midair, the being between its legs primed to fire a spike at Faiza, when Nasrikonda slammed his sledgehammer into its side. He hit the creature with such force that it clattered through one of the covered windows and tumbled down into the courtyard below.

Irfan pulled two more daggers from his belt and moved effortlessly with Redoubt into the huddled mass of prisoners as the other three creatures descended upon them. Redoubt bounced from side to side, shield on each arm, blocking spike after spike and clawed hand after clawed hand. The two of them moved about the prisoners like air, doing everything they could to keep them safe. With each cut from Irfan’s daggers, the cracked skin of the creatures would seal closed.

“They’re healing!” Irfan shouted. “Heavy wounds or nothing!”

The three creatures pressed down on the mass of prisoners, swinging wildly and crying out. Just as Irfan felt they may be overwhelmed, Polos and Acrieta bounded through the window with shimmering golden wings. The wings, certainly cast from one of Domonkos’ scrolls, dissipated as they landed, and the siege wolves set upon one of the creatures. Polos tore a gaping hole in its neck while Acrieta bit the smaller taloned creature and ripped it off the body of its host. Both creatures, parasite and host, dissolved into smoke like the ones before. That left only two, still bearing down on the prisoners. Drika the priestess howled out in anguish as her gods were being dismantled before her. She turned to flee, but one of the prisoners broke from the mass and threw himself at her, dragging her to the ground. Nasrikonda charged across the room to stop the prisoner from killing her.

“It’s bad luck to kill a priestess!” He shouted, pulling the man up. “Even if she worships demons. I think. Better safe than sorry lad.”

He placed a heavy boot on Drika, keeping her from scrambling to her feet.

“As for you milady, we will have a few questions once this scuffle comes to a close.”

Faiza returned to the fray, a small streak of blood running down her face from when her head hit the wall. The last two creatures still assailed the prisoners, but with Faiza, Irfan, Redoubt, and both siege wolves in their way, they didn’t last long. As soon as the two creatures were dispatched, Irfan rushed to the open window and looked down into the courtyard. Domonkos and Marietta peered up at him, unharmed, but with a cloud of gray particles above them.

“Thank you for sending a friend down, I was quite bored!” Marietta called up.

“Flying siege wolves?” Irfan called back. “How long have the two of you been working on that one?”

“That one was improvised,” Domonkos called back with a shrug of his shoulders.

Irfan turned his attention back to the room and the priestess beneath Nasrikonda’s boot. Drika had gone silent, her face stricken with panic. Irfan tapped Nasrikonda, who lifted his boot and pulled the priestess to her feet.

“Compassion is the first virtue of Ysoprasus,” Irfan said. “It seems you have strayed from your teachings.”

“You…this wasn’t supposed to happen,” Drika stammered. “How did you…”

“Sweet thing,” Faiza said, cleaning blood from her forehead. “no one told you about the Moiraspida?”

Irfan took the priestess by the shoulders. “What were those creatures?”

“Vesh’Tal Remnants,” Drika murmured. “The children of the God’s Pearl.”

“The central kingdom? It’s been abandoned since the end of The Collapse,” Nasrikonda said. “There’s nothing left of it.”

“That’s what they told you,” Drika said. “It’s never been abandoned. We’ve been tasked with feeding it. The lords of Vesh’Tal remain, exporting the gems of the God’s Pearl in exchange for bodies to feed the Remnants.”

“Who would accept such a deal?” Redoubt asked. “Who is working with Vesh’Tal?”

“The mage guild,” Drika said.

Irfan tightened his grip.

“Which mage guild?” he barked. “Yulfang? Sumberus? Who is responsible?”

Drika threw her head back and laughed.

“All of them,” she said. “You are so insignificant in the shadow of what is coming.”

Nasrikonda urged the wagon forward along the road, making small talk with the recently freed prisoners riding in the back. Domonkos and Faiza rode alongside, with Marietta and her siege wolves bringing up the rear. Far behind them was the Cup of Benediction, engulfed in flames. Left at the foot of the monastery were three monks and four priestesses, Drika included. The wilderness or more Vesh’Tal Remnants would decide their fate. Faiza thought they deserved execution for what they had done, but Irfan stayed her hand. Death would most likely come to them, but generosity was the fourth virtue of Ysoprasus, after all. Redoubt rode up next to Irfan at the head of the caravan.

“Now what?” they asked. “Where do we go from here?”

“To Tumo Krasis,” Irfan said, pointing to the billowing smokestacks of the city to the north. “Whatever is happening in the central kingdom is sure to spill over, particularly now that the Cup burns. We make for Tumo Krasis and ready them for war.”