Molochev, the capital city of Sviatol, Fall 564 MR. 10 pm.

Your chamber is washed in the pale glow of the many votive candles that sit upon the shelf behind the shrine to Belinik. They occasionally flicker causing the shadows to dance upon the dark stone walls.

The air is thick with the strong aroma of herbs and spices. A special treat, a sharp, almost sweet wood scent mingles with the rest of the incense, a prized spice the Khinasi call cinnamon. The spice had been a treasure taken during a raid against a caravan from the South lands. One of the many treasures in gold, fur, silk, and flesh. What a glorious day it had been.

The door sweeps open, letting in a chill draft, then closes. The rustle of robes draws you from your meditative state. You listen as the ghostly footsteps move as they have done so these many years. Pale hands materialize from the shadows and lift a fine pewter tankard on the small table at your right. Liquid is poured and the tankard is set silently next to your hand.

Taking up the tankard as you stand, you turn and take a sip of the wine. If you did not know him, you would swear that the youth before you were a specter; skin the color of sun bleached bone and hair like the purist wind driven snows of winter. Not quite sixteen, the boy was wise beyond his years, he like many Vos children, was forced into adulthood at an early age; the death of his mother, father, and other siblings had occurred during a raid by the goblins of Kal Kathor some nine years before. And recently, the last surviving member of his tribe, his uncle Drago Malik, a high priest of the One True Church, was executed by the judicial authorities of Oesorde. If the news of the death of his kinsmen bothered Sergei, he never showed it.

While Sergei resembled his uncle in skin tone and blood, it stopped on the surface. He was thoughtful and meticulous. He never spoke unless he had something to offer. He never showed any sign of weakness and showed deference only to those whom he respected. Most importantly, he was loyal. Sergei had once gutted a man for suggesting that you were a coward. The resulting duels of honor had resulted in the offending tribe being wiped from existence.

He stands silently with his hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes, the color of his standing, an acolyte of the One True Church. His head bowed in reverence awaiting your acknowledgment.

“What word have you, Sergei?”

“It is almost time, master.” The youth whispers as he meets your gaze with crystalline blue eyes. “The others are waiting for you.”

You take another drink, “In due time. I am sure that there will be plenty of sacrifices to appease the Prince’s thirst for blood and suffering before this night has passed.”

Sergei inclines his head in deference to your knowledge of the Prince of Terror’s appetites and in dealing with the others of the priestly hierarchy. He turns and glides over to a wardrobe. Opening the doors he withdraws a scabbard and belt. Like a squire from the Western lands of Anuire, the acolyte belts the sword to your waist. He drapes a fine fur trimmed cloak over your shoulders and steps back.

“Have you found what I seek?” You place the tankard on the table.

“Yes master, but not in Kurmansk as first thought. The trail leads elsewhere.” As you walk by, he hands you a folded piece of vellum. “The one you seek can be found written there on, but, ” Sergei whispers as he falls in step behind you, “we must move swiftly, master. I think that the quarry knows that we are looking and may disappear again.”

As you walk at an easy pace, you break the seal and unfold the note, a single word is scrawled, Zuluk, the northern most province of Molochev. The Dancer moves rather well for a corpse, you think as you hand the note back to Sergei who secrets it in the depths of his robes. “Sergei, start preparations. As soon as I have completed this ritual, I shall head North.”

“Yes, master.”

The Pit of Pain and Glory, Midnight. Fall 564 MR

You ride into the crisp night air. The scent of burning oak sweetens the fall breeze. As you look skyward, the deep blue sky is pierced with thousands of crystalline stars. The moon hangs full in the sky, its normally silver face is stained the color of blood; the Hunters’ moon, a good omen for the trial and setting your other plans in motion. Within a few minutes, you and your entourage rein in before the massive stone building of the One True Church. You dismount and start up the rough-hewn stone steps of the temple. Even from outside, you can hear the raucous thunder of the priesthood, whipped into a proper blood lust.

* * * * *

Kharj al-Talqa hammered impotent fists against the door of his stone prison as he heard the horrible screams that echoed down the corridor. Mercifully the screams stopped. He shoved away from the door and sank to the floor. Bowing, he placed his head on the cold stone floor, “Avani, flame of enlightenment, hear my humble prayer. For not saying that which should have been spoken, for deeds that should have been done, for duties that should have been carried out and have not been done, I ask your forgiveness. I ask not for myself, but for those who are in my care, grant me the strength and the wisdom to face what may come in this dark, cold, and unholy place, that I face it with honor and courage and save those who once relied on me to keep them safe.” He looked at the young girl who sat huddled in the corner of the cell, her eyes were wide open, but did not see as she sat with her arms wrapped around her legs, rocking and whispering unintelligible things. Raising his eyes to the cell roof, “Please Blessed Flame, keep her safe and see her delivered from this place. Amen.”

The doors burst open. Kharj was seized by two vicious looking warriors that savagely yanked him to his feet and held him fast as a third man stepped into the cell. Kharj’s heart froze. The Vos was dressed in robes that used to be white, now dyed in shades of gore, in his hands, he carried a roughly hewn wooden bowl with pictograms carved into its surface. His dark eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the ceremonial tattoos that covered his face.

“This one’s heart is fierce. His death shall honor the Prince of Terror.”

Finding his voice, “You shall find I will not die that easily, infidel.”

“In our lands, dog of Avani, you are the infidel.” The priest smiled at him. Looking at the bowl in his hands, a cold smile touched his lips, “We are not without compassion,” the priest began to the subdued laughter of the Vos warriors, “since you have the warriors’ spirit, I will grant you a boon. Drink this, and if you win against your opponent in the Pit, you will win your freedom and that of this girl.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then you will die and this girl will be given to the warriors of the temple. A fate I would not wish on any woman of my tribe, much less a frail desert flower.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully, “Some of the warriors are most skilled in the ways of pain and delight working with tender flesh.” He gazes at the girl, “She is a lovely child. So, innocent and pure. Unaware of the many perils life can present.” Looking at Kharj, “Besides warrior, you and I both know that there are worse fates than death.”

The last coupled with the sinister chortles of the Vos warriors, left Kharj with no option. “Very well, I will have your word Priest. If I win, the girl and I go free. To be escorted to the border of Kozlovnyy, whole and without stain.”

“It is given.” The priest laughed maniacally as he thrust the bowl against Kharj’s lips, one of the warriors grabbed Kharj by the hair, yanking his head back as the priest dumped the vile liquid into his mouth, causing Kharj to collapse to the floor gasping and choking.

Once the priest was convinced that Kharj had swallowed the liquid, he looked down with utter contempt, “Take him to the Pit.”

* * * * *

You and Sergi enter the sacrificial chamber referred to by all the Priesthood as the Pit of Pain and Glory. The mixed scent of blood and narcotic incense is simultaneously repulsive and intoxicating. You and your acolyte make your way to the edge of the pit. Gore splattered walls and blood soaked earth meet your gaze. The Prince of Terror would no doubt be pleased with the night’s offerings of blood and flesh.

All around you the brotherhood yells and bellows their approval of every blow struck, be it by one of their own, or the “offerings”. As you look down, Randu of the Northlands is in the pit with another Vos. A Kozlovnyy caravan guard taken during the raid. Both men have long gashes on their bodies from bladed weapons.

Randu charges forward and grabs the other man’s head. A shriek rends the smoky air. The other Vos staggers back, blood streaming from the side of his head. Randu spits the man’s ear onto the ground, draws back his sword and rams it into the other man’s chest.

The guardsman grabs Randu by the wrist and hauls him forward. Sinking his sword deeper into his chest. In a flash, a dagger thrusts it into Randu’s left eye. With his dying words, the guardsman utters, “Avani be praised.” He and Randu collapse to the ground amidst a thunderous roar of approval. It seems that even the goddess of flame and reason has a thirst for blood this night.

The din of bellows and shouts dies down. Servants bring food and wine into the chamber. They place it on a rough-hewn table and swiftly depart lest they become part of the bloodbath.

“Raznik.” A short greasy little, bald man approaches you; Sugat. Another of the brotherhood followed close on his heels. “We’d begun to wonder if you were coming.”

“Or that perhaps you find the white robes of the priestesses of Kriesha more to your liking.” The other priest laughed into his goblet.

You hear the soft whisper of steel coming free of a scabbard and sense Sergei beginning to move forward. You extend your arm halting him. You can see the rare rage in Sergei’s eyes, “It is not your place, my young friend. It is MINE!” In one motion your sword clears its scabbard and slices the offender’s head from his shoulders. An incredulous look still on his face as his lifeless body falls backward into the pit. Looks of shock sweep his comrades.

“Anyone else doubt the color of my robes?” You ask as you wipe the sword on a cloth Sergei proffers to you. You are not surprised when the priest's friends nod ‘no’ and smile.

Roars of approval rise from the crowd and many raise their goblets to you.

“Very impressive, Raznik.” Sugat intoned somewhat flatly, “But sacrifices are to be made in the pit...”

You look over the edge, looking back to Sugat, “He is in the pit.” You smile and take a deep drink of the mead.

Consternation shows on Sugat’s round face, “and our brothers are not on the alter.”

“With...respect, Prelate, we may be called upon to sacrifice ourselves at any time for Belinik’s glory.”

“That may be true, but you can hardly blame the fool for making such a rash statement, your robes are the only ones not yet stained in offering.”

“All in good time.”

“Well the time has come. There is but one offering remaining and the glory of the final sacrifice will be yours.” Sugat nods toward the pit.

A Cacophonous ROAR of your brothers shakes the temple as you jump into the pit and are confronted by the biggest Khinasi you’ve ever seen. His eyes are wild like a man possessed of a fever. He bellows and rushes you, his sword moves with deadly precision as you leap back drawing your own sword, his scimitar slices a burning red line across your chest. The first blood to stain your robe is your own!

The Khinasi warrior hounds you around the pit, savagely, and wildly swinging his sword. He cuts you across the right bicep, the left thigh, and a knick on your chin in rapid succession, before you are able to regain your fighting posture and block his next blow. It is a bone jarring impact that vibrates painfully up your arm into your shoulder. With a monumental effort you shove him back. Knocked off balance you cut him across the back. The Khinasi howls in rage, turning madman’s eyes upon you, with teeth bared and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, he lunges at you like a rabid dog!

You leap aside, cutting his arm as you do. He lumbers after you screaming and swinging wildly.

A swing passes your head, you duck and belt him hard across the face with the guard of your sword. Without flinching, he roars and grabs your arm, swinging you into the pit wall amidst the approving cheers of the crowd.

Your exchanges continue, but unlike you, your opponent gives no sign of tiring. It dawns on you, as the scimitar thacks into the wall next to your head, that he’s been given the draught of madness.

He swings you parry, he shoves you off, you swing, he blocks. This time he hooks his sword around behind and throws you off into the wall. The scimitar whistles toward you head, you block, he kicks at you, as you jump away, he pushes you off balance. Throwing his sword at you, you parry it, but he grabs you in his vice like arms and begins to crush the life out of you. With your arms firmly pinned at your sides, pain explodes in your skull and whiteness temporarily blinds you as you head butt him.

The Khinasi staggers as you crash your skull into his forehead a second time. He drops you.

The walls seem to spin. It is difficult to lock your eyes on any specific thing. You can taste the iron of your own blood as it flows freely from a cut in your lip you think. You’re not really sure. Instinctively your sword comes up and deflects a dagger that rings off your blade. The Khinasi is upon you. In three swift strokes you drive him back and in a final flourish and thrust, your blade sinks deep into his chest.

The Khinasi thuds to the blood soaked ground amidst the wild elation of the crowd. A pale golden glow drifts up from the man’s body and envelops you. You feel like you could take the throne right now if you wanted too as the euphoria of divine essence infuses every part of your body, renewing your depleted strength with a warmth and power, it feels as if your very blood is on fire.

At your feet, the Khinasi’s body bursts into flames that quickly consume him. Within moments, only a fine whitish-gray ash remains.

The room is momentarily silent and then erupts with renewed ecstasy. They help you out of the pit and everyone marvels at the spectacular bruises and cuts that you will no doubt be feeling later. A goblet is shoved into one hand and food into the other.

As you celebrate with the priests and offer praise to Belinik, you note that Sergei is strangely absent.

Raznic’s quarters, 5 AM.

The sky begins to lighten above the eastern mountain range; signs of the threatening dawn. After a night of celebration, you finally return to your quarters. You open the door; the fire has been well kept. A plate of food, that is now cold, is on a small table by your chair. A beverage sits next to it to wash it down.

As you stab a piece of cold meat with a knife, you hear the tinkling of glass behind you. Spinning you see a young girl with dusky skin. She is draped in what used to be expensive cerulean and saffron silks from the Khinasi lands, now they are tattered in places and covered in dirt smudges. Eyes wide with fear, she is momentarily stunned by your presence.

Dropping the skewered meat back onto the plate, you grasp your sword and back away slowly as your eyes quickly scan the dark corners of your quarters. Your eyes, then your head, shift back to the girl; she can’t be more than eight years old. Smoldering amber eyes follow your every move. She rises on her toes slightly the muscles in her face tighten. She’s as taut as a bow string; a fawn ready to take flight at the slightest provocation. Seeing that the girl is alone, you slowly release your grasp on your sword.

“My dear,” Your voice is deep, and though you speak in a calm measured tone, the rough hewn, guttural words are spoken in your native tongue. She squints and cocks her head to the side as if trying to understand you. “Have you been in the “temple” tonight for the offering?”

With the last word, a flash of recognition lights her eyes. You’re intimately familiar with the expression that you’ve seen on many a face, FEAR.

“SAIDNI!!” She shrieks. Glass shatters next to your head. She puts the table between you. “SAIDNI!!!!”

You’re not exactly sure what the word means, but it’s loud enough to wake the countryside. Trying to reassure the child, you extend your hand in a non threatening manner trying to communicate to her to stop shouting. “Stop crying. Tell me who you are.”

Your eyes widen as the girl grabs and arm full of glass. You deftly dodge the rapid succession of glass and crockery as it hits the wall. You lunge for her – she dives under the table emerging on the other side. She looks around wildly. Sucking in a deep breath,

“SERGEI! SAIDNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!”

The sound stabs at your ears; you didn’t think it was possible for such a small child to make such a racket. This time you take the direct route, over the table. She attempts to flee; you manage to catch her by the arm. Futilely she beats at your arm as you drag her to you.

The door from Sergei’s room flies open and your missing acolyte appears. The surprise at seeing your acolyte is distraction enough.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGHH!” You bellow as the girl takes a healthy bite of your hand. Throwing her off, you draw your hand back.

“MASTER NO!” Sergei dashes forward between you and the girl. Scrambling to her feet, she darts behind Sergei using him as a shield against your wrath.

Sergei drops to his knees, “Master if you must strike anyone, strike me. I am to blame. I brought her here.” He raises his chin and waits for your justice.

Shaking the pain out of your hand as you lower it, you rumble, “Explain yourself, Sergei.”

Not moving, “I brought her here because Vladimir meant to deny you of your prize, Master. This girl belonged to your “offering”, with his death she belongs to you.” Sergei looks back at the girl clutching at his dark robes. Returning his eyes to you, “Master Gregor seemed to think she was valuable, maybe someone of worth.” He looks thoughtful as he recalls a detail, “I believe he thought that she might be of the Royal House of Kozlovnyy.”