Chapter 8

After the attack on the city, dissidence had begun to swell within the townsfolk. As with any crisis, fear begins to creep into the minds of the people. Many villagers lost loved ones as well as home and property during the skirmish. This fear coupled with loss caused some within the town of Gestalt to hold the Church accountable for the chaotic attack. They blamed the parish for not protecting them from the terrible anguish that they had been afflicted with.

A few unorganized attacks on the Church parish had been prevented with little trouble. One father, who was drunk from a night spent at the local tavern drowning his pain away, had tried haphazardly to set fire to the warrior domiciles. The arson attempt had been easily thwarted by the Protectorate and the man was counseled for his actions.

Another elderly grandmother who had lost two sons during the battle had thrown some stones at the priests during a Church service. Several of them received bruises and gashes from the attack. She was apprehended and spent a few days within the city jail.

The parish realizing the possible dilemma of revolt posted a small amount of guard around the church grounds as protection. One of the guard members given this task was the crippled Donovan.

It had been just a short while since he was last in the Church hospital, so the stitches that traced his front were still in place. His mood had not improved over the time since the battle, and instead he spent each day solemn and emotionless. In order to keep himself from falling apart, he pushed the painful memories that initially consumed his every thought into the back of his mind. His duties for the Church were his only escape.

He was stationed at the base of a large stone tower which housed members of the upper parish; including the high priest Darria. It had four levels, contained fifteen lavish bedrooms, had a small kitchen, and inside the third floor was a single room meant for private meetings. The entrance that Donovan was posted at was the main entry for the building. There was a medium-sized, double door that led into the central hallway of the tower. Another smaller cellar door behind the building led into the service area of the kitchen.

The upper sage domicile was located in the southern part of the Church grounds. It was separate from the other main buildings, and a single small oak had grown on the eastern side of the tower. Several windows and the occasional balcony looked out from the rooms on each floor.

The sun said its goodbyes to Gestalt and disappeared into the horizon. The once amber sky began to turn purple and black. The moon came out of hiding and shone brightly above the grounds of the Church. A few scattered wisps of clouds hung in the sky. A slight breeze drifted around the sage's tower.

Donovan stood at his post located at the main doors; clad in the traditional thin Protectorate iron armor. While looking out into the expanse of the Church courtyard, his eyes glazed over. Donovan was serious about his commitment to the holy order, but he believed his current duty was pointless and mundane. "Who would bother coming this deep into the Church grounds looking to pick a fight at this hour? And why was a great warrior such as himself given such a useless task?" He quietly argued with himself within his mind, still standing stoic as the single guard for this tower.

The hours seemed to pass slowly as they always did when Donovan was at his post. He didn't have the luxury of another guard member to talk with. Besides, because of his injury most of those within the Holy Protectorate had a hard time looking at him at all. The gruesomeness of his wound made those around him quite uncomfortable. He often cursed and wished that he would have rather lost an arm or a leg than to be disfigured in the manner that he was.

He constantly battled with his emotions whenever he was alone. He had to continually remind himself that he had a job to do, and worrying about what might and could have been was meaningless. He was where he was at, and he could not do a single thing to change it. On a regular basis, he told himself to just move forward.

Donovan leaned back against the stone wall next to the wooden doors. He tilted his head back a bit, and felt the stitches pull his skin taut. He looked up at the large moon hanging above the night sky. The warrior began whimsically tracing shapes within the shadows upon its great white face. He dreamt that there must be great canals and rivers upon its shimmering surface. While gazing at the celestial object, he saw faint movement out of the corner of his single eye.

The motion that he had seen instantly heightened his senses. He quickly raced to investigate further. He glanced up the great stone wall. Upon the wall about halfway up the tower, near the top of the second floor, was a figure clad in black. A faint outline of a man climbing the great tower appeared within his eye. Tiny flecks of stone showered down to the ground, presumably from the figure's climbing devices.

Donovan had to think quickly. He did not have a bow available and, unlike the figure above, he would unable to climb the great tower with any speed. He instead decided to use the building's stairs and meet the fiend at the end of his ascent.

He made a quick sprint for the main doors and flung them open. He raced inside, quickly climbing the great stone staircase located in the center of the tower. The sword tied to his back clanged noisily against his metal armor as he ascended. He assumed that the attacker would probably target the third floor meeting room. On evenings like this, several of the higher parish members would meet to discuss issues of the town.

After a few minutes, with little breath remaining he reached the doors to the meeting room. The door was closed due to the discussions inside. He tried to open the door at first, but the door was locked. He pounded his gauntleted fist against the wooden door, trying to get the attention of the occupants inside. When they did not answer, he stood away from the door, ran, and broke it down in a quick rush.

He crashed through the entry in time to see three darts flying through the air towards the table at his left. He turned to the balcony on his right and saw the figure in black standing in the doorway. Behind him he heard the sound of a body hitting the floor accompanied by frantic screaming.

With one quick motion he unhitched the sword from his back and advanced on the assassin. With no weapon to counter the sword of a Protectorate, the black figure attempted a retreat. It was a futile maneuver, as Donovan charged at the man with his sword pointed directly at the enemy. The warrior's broad sword skewered the assassin with just a few steps.

Donovan continued to charge the black figure and the assassin's body was flung over the balcony wall. The man screamed as he flew through the air down towards the ground below. His screaming ended when he reached the destination below with a large thump. The assassin's body landed in a contorted shape.

With the assassin disposed of, Donovan passed his sword into his left hand and turned his attention to the occupants of the meeting room.

When he turned around into the interior of the room, he saw three figures. Two of them sat at a large round wooden table, with the third writhing back and forth on the carpeted floor. He recognized all three men; each of them a great mage from within the Church. The high priest Darria sat to the far right of the table, and next to him was the elder sage Steirlen. They sat in large, thick wooden chairs which had intricate designs carved into them. On the floor crying in pain was the lesser priest, Ovembre.

"Ahhhh, save me! I'm dying. I surely will die!" howled Ovembre. Two of the three darts had landed along his torso. Blood flowed from the punctures.

Steirlen walked over to Ovembre, and kneeled next to him. "Calm down you fool," he said in a raspy voice.

Steirlen plucked the two darts from Ovembre's midsection. He then helped the lesser priest back into his chair.

"I will bleed to death! I already feel faint! It's only a matter of time! Ahhhh!" cried Ovembre.

"Eat the seed you buffoon. You will be fine," said the heavy voice of Darria.

It was at this moment that Donovan saw something he wasn't expecting to see within the tower on this evening. He saw the sage Steirlen hand Ovembre a whole Ifriit seed which he promptly chewed then swallowed.

The lesser priest began to convulse and spasm. His eyes turned white as they rolled into the back of his head. Magically the gushing wounds caused by the darts stopped bleeding. Where the skin had been cut, it no longer showed any signs of attack. Ovembre's body went calm, and then the priest seemed to pass out into a deep sleep.

"Was that the true power of an Ifriit seed?" Donovan thought. He had never personally seen the use of a full Ifriit seed. He was amazed at how quickly and thorough it had sealed the wounds of the injured priest. They most certainly were a heavenly gift from above.

The warrior's eyes scanned the rest of the area. In front of each chair sat a single glass goblet of wine. In the center of the sage's table sat an intricate glass bowl. Within its lavish designs sat two other Ifriit seeds, apparently ripe. "Why are there two more seeds?" he thought. "I thought they were only harvested when the need was dire."

Darria spoke, "Thank you for your services warrior, you may now leave."

The high priest paused. "You must also disregard what you have seen here. We cannot allow info regarding the events transpiring here during this meeting to leave this room."

Doubt began to seep into Donovan's mind. "Why did three high sages have three ripened Ifriit seeds? They had not expected an assassin attack, and why had they so calmly fed one of the precious seeds to a man without life threatening wounds? Had they planned to consume the seeds regardless of the evening's events? Why would they do that?"

These and other questions began to flood the warrior's mind. Before he could use logic to review his actions, he asked the trio a question. "Why do you have three full Ifriit seeds?"

Darria, obviously taken back by the warrior's question answered, "That is none of your concern warrior."

Anger joined Donovan's current inquisitive mood. "Weren't Ifriit seeds precious and rare? Then why were these priests apparently using them so liberally? They were a gift of Heaven and were not to be squandered!" Donovan's temper grew.

The warrior spoke again, "Couldn't the wounds of priest Ovembre been healed using traditional methods? Why so then did you give him a full Ifriit seed?"

Darria's demeanor also began to fill with anger. "As I said before, that is not for you to know young man. Leave us!"

Donovan was becoming very agitated. "If they used a seed to heal this lesser priest, couldn't they have healed many more of the wounded soldiers from the attack? A single drop or just a small sliver from a single seed could have saved many lives!"

His mind continued to race. "In fact, if they had these seeds available they could have saved… they could have saved Bettany! She could have easily been cured! Why then were they using these seeds now?"

Ovembre had begun to awaken from his sleep. As he came to, Donovan yelled at the trio of priests, "I demand to know why you have squandered these gifts from Heaven!"

Darria, sensing the ever increasing anger within the young warrior, motioned for his goblet. Using his right index finger, he traced the rim of the goblet once in a circular motion.

Donovan obviously upset from not receiving answers to his questions, shifted his sword into his right hand.

Darria quickly lifted his hand that was tracing the goblet and slammed his fist down onto the table's surface. Red wine from the glass sprayed into the air. Globules of red liquid hung in the air for a moment, then turned glassy. A red tinted bubble surrounded each of the priests. Glare from torches throughout the room shone on the protective transparent bubbles.

Something inside of Donovan snapped, and he attacked Darria with his sword.

Even though he swung the weapon forcibly, his blade was repulsed by the glassy shield above the priest. It bounced back into the air and a ringing sound echoed through the room.

Ovembre let out a yelp of terror and cringed in his seat. Steirlen began to laugh at the attack, and a slight smile began to grace Darria's face. The spell would easily protect them, and the two senior sages relaxed. Steirlen let out another laugh.

Donovan attacked the magic bubble again and the blow was deflected. The same ringing sound was heard. The sages continued to laugh at his futile attempts.

The warrior still fueled by his pent up anger, continued to lash out with his sword. Again and again he slammed his blade against the protective shields. With each attack his anger grew and grew.

His mind raged, "Why were they not answering my questions! And why did they feel the need to defend themselves from me!?!"

Donovan continued with his attempts. Sweat from his hair was beginning to pour down his head. His arms were becoming strained, and his hands were turning numb with each vibrating blow. The veins within his wrists were pulsing with furiously pumping blood. An enraged look lay upon his face: his teeth bearing, lips quivering, his eye wide, a snarled wrinkle in his nose. He grunted louder and louder with each blow.

The priests' laughter also grew. "Who was this feeble little warrior in thinking he could attack us? What did he think he would accomplish with these pathetic efforts?"

Donovan roared. He pulled his sword yet again into the air readying it for another blow. With all his might, he screamed and slammed the tip of the blade into the top of Darria's bubble. The sound that was heard was a dull ring.

Darria's laughter stopped and his eyes went wide. He heard a small cracking sound, and noticed a miniscule seam appear within the top of his bubble where the warrior had hit it. He began to pull himself back into his chair, retreating in fear.

With a massive growl at the top of his lungs, Donovan attacked the high priest's bubble with every bit of power he had remaining. The sword flew through the air in a reflective blur.

The glass bubble above Darria shattered. Pieces of thin red crystals exploded into the room. The high priest let out a scream.

Donovan's sword arced downwards towards his enemy, and embedded itself into the great wooden chair. The blade easily cut through the right shoulder of the mage sitting in it, and ended its journey just a few inches shy from his heart. Blood spewed forward towards Donovan in a great spray. His armor and face were painted with the fine red mist.

Steirlen, obviously caught off guard, quickly cast a spell. Grabbing a tiny glass marble from his purse, he threw it at the enraged warrior.

A great gust of wind hit the center of Donovan's chest. He lost his grip from the hilt of the great sword, and was flung into the air across the room towards the window. During his flight, his left foot was caught on the balcony's small wall and he fell down tumbling out of the tower. A thump similar to that of the assassin's landing mixed with the crumpling noise of iron armor was heard.

Darria sat stapled to his chair, quickly losing consciousness due to his blood loss. While Ovembre sat at the end of the table cowering, Steirlen made attempts to dislodge the bloodied sword from the priest's chair. With some effort the blade was pried loose, and more blood flew through the air. Darria slumped over in his seat.

Steirlen grabbed one of the magical Ifriit seeds from the glass bowl upon the table. He broke it open with his wrinkled fingers; juices from the fruit drizzled down his hand. The elder mage shoved the cracked seed directly into Darria's mouth. The high priest swallowed then convulsed; his eyes turned white similar to Ovembre's.

A few moments passed and Darria awoke. His body retched and he coughed up a small amount of mucus and blood. The wound that originally stretched from his shoulder to his heart had sealed up. His robes were bloody and torn, but the skin showed no sign of injury. He lifted his head, and a great scowl of outrage could be seen upon his face.

The great high priest let out an echoing yell that filled the room.

Continue to Chapter 8 - continued