Konstantins Crusade English version - E W (ebook reader for comics .txt) 📗

the ghosts of millions were concentrating in this small chamber. Lurking, just like the Twelve on their obsidian seats. How? He pushed the question aside as unimportant as he began to pray down his soft litany once again. "I am iron. Outside of smithy fire, inside out of will. "He was not a warrior, not a sacred paladin or even swordmaster like his father. But he was an archivist. He was the voice of Lao's law, and he would not dishonor himself by being intimidated by a few ghosts. Nevertheless, he regretted being here as Damote's agent. His father had no patience for the rites of this city, let alone understanding. Helike knew ghosts and magic and the destruction they brought with them. And they had overcome them. And he was part of Helike. Priam forced his attention back into the here and now, back to the spectacle that took place in the circle of light before the thrones.

The last prisoner was different than the others. The others had been officers, some of them plain soldiers who had been captured during the nocturnal attacks on the Imperial Army camps. Men and women in the yellow and blue uniforms of the Empire. There had been a total of twenty this time, sacrificed in front of the steps of the inner temple. Priam had watched as the lesser priests opened their throats and let blood flow on altars and heavy, bronze chalices. Blood streaming through a myriad of thin canals and capillaries into the interior of the structure, gathering in a basin in the center of the pillar of light, where some of the lower priests caught it and carried it outside with songs and the smell of incense. Presumably to mask the blood stink while they were performing their rituals. Rituals ... That was something he had had to get used to in this city. Instead of Helike's clear rules, everything seemed to be covered with a fog of mysticism and worship. Even the smallest actions, such as the sale or preparation of food, were accompanied by ritualistic greetings or gestures. Yet Priam could never shake off the impression that it was all wrong. Not because it did not correspond to the teachings of Laos. No, it seemed too ... artificial, too set up as if the rituals they performed did not belong to this people. And the longer he was in the presence of the high priest, the stronger that conviction became. Those beings who  were frightening to behold by their mere presence did not have to appease gods to exercise power.

This city was full of wonders, and even if Lao's teachings denied it, Priam could acknowledge that they were beautiful in their own right. And yet at the heart of everything sat the horror of the high priests.
What happened now however, seemed to completely dissipate that fog for the first time since the arrival of Priam.

 Because this last prisoner was different. Just as beaten and worn as its predecessors but far older it seemed.  Long gray mottled brown hair that did not seem to fit  the strict dress code of the Guard, a face marked by worry lines and weathered skin ... and eyes.  Priam did not know what exactly, but the feeling of uneasiness he had experienced since entering the chamber only increased as the man's gaze lay on him for a heartbeat.  As if those ice-blue eyes had seen everything in him. His thoughts, his motivation, even the things he did not want to admit to himself about his nature.

The impression lasted only for a moment, and then there was only the old man, flanked in by two figures wrapped in green robes.

The other men had been dragged. Some had not been able to walk, either because they had been wounded during the battle or were fighting until one of their captors broke their legs. For the gods of Xihuitzin, the condition of the body did not count. Only her blood. The newcomer, however, walked upright, and even with disgust and fear written on his face, he did not slow down, even advancing a step ahead of his capturers. He wore a robe made of roughly worked furs and skins that made a barbaric contrast to the neatly crafted uniforms of the emperors army.

What do you want?"

Despite the fear on his face, the man's voice was surprisingly calm, almost bored, when he finally stopped in the center of the pillar of light, just a step away from the blood pool. His gaze wandered briefly over each of the twelve figures, before it  found  Priam again and finally returned to  where the face of one of the three innermost high priests should be.  Priam assumed that the stranger  couldn’t really see anything while standing within the light, light, that blurred all features and hurt when one looked too long at the same spot. One of his two guards kicked him, forcing him to the ground. "You will address the high priests with due respect, creature."

The stranger made something that sounded like a cry of pain and a suppressed laugh at the same time. "I am the creature here, yes?" He made no move to rise again, but remained on his knees and looked again at the twelve figures on their thrones. If he had hoped for an response , he received none. At least not from one of the high priests.

 

 

 

 

 

“The priests have warned us of your kind and your lies. "Again one of the guards. Priam frowned. What happened here? The kneeling man did not look as if he belonged to the emperors men  or the inhabitants of Xihuitzin. And  he certainly wasn’t from Helike.

 Once again he studied the stranger, concentrating on the fine details, the skins that made up his clothes, the strange chains and talismans around his neck ... He'd seen something like that before. In Helike's archives, somewhere in the slowly decaying scrolls and folios under the black tower of the Archons. Allegedly, behind the Empire was nothing but an endless wasteland of ice and snow, just as behind Helikethere  seemed to be only the desert. And yet there were those who could survive in these deserts. The Whaid in the endless sand dunes. And in the tundra Cantons ... This man was an Ice Nomad! However, that answered neither the question of why he had come here , nor why he apparently already knew of the high priests.

"You are charlatans," spat the Nomad. "The only thing I do not understand is why you're hiding. One more time. What do you want? "A thin grin appeared on his face. "Would you like to know how you are going to die?" And at that, his eyes wandered to Priam again. "I know it. As I know what my end will look like. "

"Where is the Emperor?" The question did not seem to come from any of the twelve high priests directly. The voice was thin, cutting like a blade, but at the same time stronger than Priam would have thought. It was the first time one of the high priests bothered  to speak in his presence, instead of communicating about servants or messengers. Normally, the twelve seemed to be whispering to their closest confidants, or ,just as quietly, among themselves. Even in Damote's presence they had barely exchanged a word with their allies. And now a strange barbarian managed to break this ritual with his mere presence. And then the questions he asked ...

The Nomad seemed almost amused. "An interesting plan you have," he said. "I think I understand. That's what you're all about. Maybe I'll even tell you what you want to know if you answer a question first. How does it feel to be actually scared for the first time in centuries? You know that you are the last and that he would find you. And now it's almost too late. But it will not be the Empire that  destroys you. The Emperor is on his way here. And he will fall here. Together with you. "

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 4

 

 

 

Cyrus jerked the knife from the fallen man's chest. If one could call the being before him a man.  At least he was pretty sure he was dead. The knife had been a lucky hit and throwing it a risk. Sometimes you just had to trust that everything would work out. There was nothing else left to do if you did not want to go crazy in this place. He kicked the creature in front of him. It did not move. Ist  skin was black, but not in the sense that it was the skin of the inhabitants of Lasanta, the port city from which they had originally embarked to make their way south. He could still remember the strange impressions, the smell of spices, the bright, light robes, the gigantic warehouses at the harbor, essential fort he lively trade in the region, and the endless rows of ship masts, a far memory at this place, smeared with mud, and dotted gray tents and endless rows of barricades and sandbags that stretched around him.

Despite the important position their province had in the Empire, the dark-skinned residents of Lasantas mostly remained in their large city by the sea and left it to their far-reaching guilds to take care of local business. This dead man before him was not one of them.

 His skin was covered in scales, that seemed  to swallow the light completely, except for a few spots where it refracted it in all the colors of the rainbow. It was not paint, but a layer of scales covering his skin wich could not be of natural origin. Cyrus knew their coloration could change, until the warrior who wore it became almost invisible, especially at night or in the thick foliage of the jungle. The scales were hard as iron and almost felt like stone, as if the wearer was just another golem, another rock creature. The Shadowguard ... the warrior elite of Xihuitzin, it was said. Chosen and somehow  changed by the high priests. In addition to his scale skin, the man wore only a simple loincloth so as not to endanger his camouflage. An axe  had fallen to the ground next to him. Cyrus carefully picked up the weapon and studied it briefly. The handle was made of dark wood and wrapped in leather. The head seemed to consist of a kind of glass. Black, like the artificial skin of its owner and sharper then any knife. Cyrus did not even dare to examine the cutting edge. He knew what the Obsidian Blade of a Shadow Warrior was capable of. But where normal volcanic glass would otherwise quickly become dull, these edges seemed to remain sharp and did not break even when they hit steel. Without much thought, the wolf hooked the axe under his belt, next to the recovered knife, and stood up.

This nights attack ha sleft the camp in chaos. Some tents had caught fire and even now there were still people busy with extinguishing embers. Others had gathered around the cooking fires. Cyrus could. Cyrus could smell coffee. Many soldiers  had copied the tradition of collecting and roasting the beans from the trees that grew