The Priesthood

There have been many attempts to topple the tyranny of Kalma—the tyranny of their living, eternal God. But all of them have failed; without exception, each and every single one of them has failed. And from such revolts and revolutions, progress has not come. The times have not changed since the previous revolution; the sentiment to remove a god from his throne has not become more popular, nor has it garnered any significant number of followers or discussions that have seen the light of broader scrutiny and commentary.

No philosopher has argued against Kalma, nor have they argued for a revolution; instead, many of them have called for people to trust in their god, for them to believe in the already-existing establishment, as it is there for people, to keep them safe and to keep them from harming the greater good, the great vision that god has surely planned out for them. But what is that vision that their god sees? No one knew, and only time would tell how it would happen, and only history could tell the people if it was a success or a failure.

But does a god make mistakes?

Kalla’s office was grand; the sides of the walls were covered with bookshelves filled with books, documents, and even memorabilia—swords and small statues brought from previously fought wars and from the loot of a dead enemy. What stories would such items tell? How they were used, the people they depicted, and whose story they told? A small statue could be an idol of an already forgotten god or a king; a sword used in many battles against countless enemies; or a symbol of status, of being better or equal to the men that were around the person who carried said sword.

Kalla himself sat on his chair, investigating a document that was before him, at times turning pages and writing down a note for himself of an important detail that he had found within said document.

Years had passed since they had truly conversed with each other, and now that years had indeed passed, it was easier to notice how a man grows older. The wrinkles on his scaly skin were more apparent, and his eyes were more deeply set than before; his hair was now white and lacked even the gray that it had held before.

Perhaps it had not been just time that had brought such significant change to the man, but instead the stress and the long hours that he found himself working, at all times trapped in his mind with a mission given to him by a god who cared not for the health or ails of his own son.

How long had he been alive, and how long would he continue to live? This was a question a child would always ask in his or her own mind, as years went past and life went on, as one could soon see as their own parent would visibly change, as they would get older and more sick...

But a child would always deny the mortality of their own parents. A child would seldom ever wish for the death of the person who brought them to this world.

But it was also something that a child would have to face in the end.

Perhaps it was Ignar’s frown that awoke Kalla from his deep thought, or just the fact that he had finally gone through the document that he had so keenly investigated moments before.

Now their eyes met again, but Ignar looked away, not wanting to find in the eyes of his own father disappointment or, worse, pity.

“Are you now an obedient soldier of Kalma, another knight of the Order of the Dragon?” He asked, and without looking and truly facing his face, Ignar could imagine a mocking smile as the primary expression held on his face.

“Yes, sir,” Ignar replied as loud and as falsely proud as he could, yet he did not seek his eyes as he did so.

Kalla scoffed. “Good, then you might live a longer life than I will.” He said, and soon sighed loudly, “But I digress; we have more important matters to discuss.”

“A raid, its objectives, and the part that you are to play.”

“We both know that you are not qualified enough to work for me or to even take part in the missions that we are to take. Yet I have to take you with me, as these are the commands given to you and then to me by Kalma himself.”

“Here are your orders, and they are quite simple so that even you can understand and follow them without dying: Soon, you are to arm yourself and then report to me at the gates of the Palace Grounds.”

“From there, you and some of my men are to follow me to the Adrian Estate; we believe that a significant portion of the capital used for arming and funding the organization behind the revolution comes from there.”

“The raid will be total; no one is to leave the estate alive, and everything inside is to be either questioned, tortured, interrogated, claimed, and then moved to a different location, or just killed.”

“These are your orders; these should be enough; more are given at the estate itself.”

“Am I understood?” Kalla asked lastly, and his eyes keenly observed any and all facial expressions that Ignar might make and any movements as well.

“Yes, sir,” Ignar replied, this time not as loudly nor as falsely proudly.

Kalla nodded, more so to himself than to anyone else. “Then go and prepare yourself.” He commanded, thus dismissing Ignar, who left after saluting his father, no, his commander.

In the barracks of the castle, in a room that he shared with many others, mostly just normal soldiers, he sat on his bed and polished his saber. Its blade was the very same he had used during many duels; there really wasn’t much use for him to carry it to where he was going. What could a blade, a mere sword, do against the barrage of magic that could so easily break it?

He didn’t need to take it with him, but he would either way. He was used to it by now. It brought him comfort; it was like a companion that would never reply during a conversation, but it was also one that would not betray him; he could only ever betray it.

He could lose a duel; he could place the sword in danger, place it in between him and magic, or place it against a blade and arm much stronger than his. A blade can break; even if a saber could bend somewhat, with enough pressure, it would break in two.

He had severed hands with it, he had pierced someone during a duel, and he had removed ears from where they were supposed to be; the blade had never betrayed him. Which is why he solemnly took care of it. Which is why he would take it with him into the Adrian Estate; perhaps there is no need for it.

Ignar scoffed to himself, remembering the words of his father, how he so dismissively treated him, how he ridiculed his own son and the skills that were taught to him. Yet he knew that his words were correct.

He wasn’t the right man for the job—not a job like this, at least. The only reason why he had received the rank that was given to him was that he was family and because Kalma needed someone he could so easily influence among Kalla’s men.

He wasn’t a killer. He had never killed anyone. He hadn’t even killed an animal. During hunts, he was, for some reason, unable to kill the target that he had hunted. It always led to Kalla doing the killing for him.

He was soft—much softer than the man he called father, much softer than most of his peers at the cadet school. Sure, he could remove a hand from a man, and then he could as easily heal it. But that was the thing. He never removed someone’s hand with a sword to kill them; he did it so that he could win. And he could always heal a wounded man, but never a man who had no life.

He had to become tougher. He had to become someone who could kill. He would have to become a man who would not hesitate when having to kill, and he would have to become a man who would not think back on such an action, not the action of killing a man. He would have to become a man who would not regret his actions, one who would feel guilt because of the actions that he had to take.

But if he had to kill a man, if he were commanded to do so, was it then even his choice? Was it then even his action? Sure, he might’ve killed a man, but who is to blame a soldier who just does his duty? Does one blame the sword for the head that was removed or the man who carries it?

The death that he would cause would always fall on the shoulders of Kalla, and from there, on the shoulders of Kalma. His conscience would be clean.

So he got up from his bed, placed the saber into the scabbard on his hip, and walked out of the barrack he shared with so many men toward the gates, from where he would not be a man but a soldier. His mind and his actions would not be his own; for this night, they follow only the commands of Kalla; tonight, he would be nothing more than a sword.

When he arrived at the gates, he noticed many familiar faces. The faces of the people that he had seen earlier that day huddled around the table in Kalla’s war room. They were knights like he was, and they had formed groups, each of which would have a different target for tonight. Kanrel had no idea about the other targets; he didn’t know where most of them would go; he only knew where his group would go, a collection of just four people. Kalla, as their leader, and Erjen, who stood right next to him, listened closely to what another man was saying.

As Ignar walked closer, he could make out some of the words that he spoke, something about “danger” and the “useless member of their team.” Ignar could guess who he meant with that last remark, and perhaps even the first remark was tied to the latter one. Maybe Ignar would be a cause for danger for his team, as he was the “useless member of their team.”

He braced himself and walked to them, saluting them and announcing his arrival. Instantly, he got many eyes on him—other knights that were in their groups that now studying their latest and youngest addition. Even Erjen did so, but on her face, there was an amused expression.

"Boy, do you realize what we are doing here tonight?” Kalla soon asked, and even on his face, there could be found an amused expression.

“Yes, sir. Something about questioning, torturing, and killing.” Ignar answered promptly, causing the only member of his team whose name he did not know to snicker out loud. Ignar stared at him, this strange man who seemed nothing more than a local alcoholic that one could find around the more unsavory establishments of the city. One could imagine him to have found himself in a holding cell meant for drunks during one of his many long nights spent drinking out in the open, perhaps with friends or prostitutes, but most likely he would have done so alone.

There was just something about him that loudly, and for some reason, very proudly, he exclaimed to the world his interest in long walks at the park at night—the ones where you can’t really tell if you are walking straight or if you are on your back against the cobblestone street suffering from extreme vertigo.

“Your son is very formal; as far as I can tell, there is nothing similar about the two of you.” The man pointed out whilst snickering and tapping Kalla on the shoulder, then he suddenly straightened himself and saluted to Ignar, “Captain Wechter at your service!” He exclaimed mockingly, then his posture collapsed back to his ‘I-drink-at-least-two-bottles-of-hard-liquor-a-day pose’ and he added, “But you can call me Urgur; that’s what everyone else calls me either way, even though I am a captain and all, and a very distinguished one at that, I’ll have you know!” All this time, Wechter had a toothy smile on his face; he even offered his hand to Ignar so that they could shake hands, but before Ignar could do anything, the man had already moved one.

“So,” he said, the man had become very serious all of a sudden; his voice was no longer jolly, and had become even, perhaps more natural than before as if his earlier voice was nothing more than a well-practiced lie that he had used many times to fool those who he didn’t really want to deal with.

“When we exit through these gates and then enter the night, as we go through the streets and reach our destination at the Adrian Estate, when we enter the goal of our raid, can I trust you to not get in my way?” He asked softly. His voice was ambrosia. A silky, smooth tone, a voice that did not match the body nor the face of the man that carried it, that used it. A voice one would expect of a man who would spend his days swooning maidens and inexperienced men.

Ignar was visibly shocked, and he felt that the sound of him swallowing could be heard by all.

“Urgur, don’t tease the boy; he isn’t one of your targets.” Erjen scoffed, trying to sound stern, but anyone could see her amused expression.

Urgur turned toward Erjen and curtsied mockingly, then he faced Ignar again and winked slyly.

“Well then, shall we get going?” He asked soon, again changing his voice to the jovial alcoholic that he had been just moments before.

The Adrian Estate wasn’t located far from the palace; after all, House Adrian was one of the wealthiest and most influential in the Empire of the Dragon, and they too were like any other rich, distinguished family: believers, zealots even, all followers of the great Kalma.

One would hardly ever question or doubt them for things like heresy or revolutionary beliefs, not to mention funding those beliefs. After all, how could they ever hide a secret—a crime so large—right before the eyes of their own god in what was basically just an extension of his backyard?

Another lavish collection of buildings, one could call it a palace of its own; of course, it could never be as large or as impressive as the real deal that was basically around the corner, but it did try to overwhelm architecturally anyone that might see it, and furthermore, anyone that got closer to it or sought entrance to it.

Even if it was smaller and not as impressive as Kalma’s Palace or Palace Grounds, it still remained impressive. It was stylized like a château in the middle of a massive city, and it wasn’t even the only one like it; there were many more like it around Kalma’s Palace, of manors and estates of different rich and powerful families that wanted to bask near the glory of their closest sun.

It was amazing; it was awe-inspiring, just the sheer artistry of the building and other buildings and parts of the estate connected to it, not to mention the massive garden that was behind it. But then a simple issue crept into Ignar’s mind. One attached to a number; surely it was just an estimate, but that number was four hundred. There had to be at least four hundred rooms in a construction like this. How in Kalma’s name were they going to raid it?