The auras danced in the sky, as fires circled around me. Salamanders stabbed at me from all around, as I heard the dwarves yelling in battle with their mistress. Nonia was turning, trying to hurl her spear, when the maw of the large red draka opened, and fires spewed out towards her. Even knowing now what would happen, my body still leapt to her, knocking her away from the blaze that engulfed me, as I screamed in pain, moving into the fire, not away. The inferno ended, but the pain increased, as the heat dug into my flesh, and my eyes boiled and burst. I collapsed to knees as the pain overwhelmed me. I heard my love howl in rage, and felt her rushing past me. I was no longer able to see, but the roar of pain told me her hasta had found its mark.
The came the awful crunching noise, mixed with a yell of pain as potent as mine had been. Specula twitched in my hand, as somehow I found the strength to stand and again move forward. I heard my name from lips so sweet, but not in love. She was in pain, and trouble, it was a summons to the death to save her. Yet even as I took the steps towards our foe, I knew it was already too late. I could see her aura, even with my eyes gone, as the flames of it broke up and wisped away. I swung my blade down hard at those wisps, not to end the life, but to try and save it.
Then a bony claw intervened, scaled in blue, not red. The flesh on the talons was rotting away, leaving the bones bound only by some blackness that moved like water in a rocky streambed along them. It caught my acinias, and deflected it off to the side. The fires were gone, and all was dark, save the glow of those blue scales. This was no longer as things had happened. But the vision marched on, as the claw struck at me, and shattered, and another draconic visage howled in pain and lightning exploded around me. The stench of death had remained, now overlain with the smell of rotting flesh.
And the fires were replaced by the bitter cold of death. I shivered as I fought this new foe, one I did not recognize. Somehow I was able to know where he was, even as he tried to move in ways I could not predict. The blackness of its soul showed me where it was, I could see that dark blotch, and feel the life of all around it dying. Then a spear sailed in, a hasta, much like that Nonia had born. The claw again struck at me, remade in iron, but now twisted palm up, and in it there stood ten shadowy figures, bound up in chains made of shadows.
I awoke from these dreams of past and shadowy future to a flow of late spring snow dropping out of the window above the foot of my cot onto me. The sudden change of temperature had brought me back from the lands of visions, future and past, to that of the present, where my empty eye sockets screamed in agony at the cold air. My body shook with the cold, something I was never very fond of anyway, as I wondered how a set of shutters that were never opened even summer's heat could be open now.
A voice shivering with the same cold I was starting to suffer from came from beyond the window. As one who had survived the flames of a dragon, cold bothered me more than I cared to share so I understood that chattering voice's pains. "As you commanded, Dom, the spears shall be raised."
The answering voice came from within, and was one I had only dreamed of hearing again. It did not so much answer the voice without, as speak to me. "Perfidio! My apologies, Billenius. I thought the winds had cleared the ledge of snow, or I would have awakened you." The voices were both low, whispers really, but around one who relies so much on hearing as I, they were still very audible. As was the sounds of items being passed in the window. I could hear the person inside stacking the items along the wall, as they were passed in. Then one went onto the bed beside me, my hand instinctively sought it out.
My fingers found another thing I had thought lost as much as the person in the room with me. Sharkskin wraps on the handgrip, the smooth polished feel of chablys, what others call elven steel, and a well worn scabbard decorated with gems. Gems I knew by heart, having set them myself before the breath of the Queen of Flames had boiled my eyes from my face. Specula, the saber made for me by my father, crafted for my hand and style of fighting. Not that a blind man can fight. But still, it was comforting, even if it meant that my visitor thought I might need it.
At last, the noise of passing items ended, and the voice inside spoke again. "Good, in two turnings of the horium, let the spears be raised. We will bring out all those flamenis and auguris who wish to leave, and still can move." A chill deeper than the spring freeze without the walls held that day for my aching wounds entered that voice. "Let the Ten Gens of the Insulae tremble in fear, and their puppets in the Decemviri flee from our hastae. The Ordo Triarium will once more hold the sacred safe."
The words had rung in my ears, with names I feared and others I had longed for the return to the city for so long. The Ordo Triarium, the spearmen of the third rank, once the protectors of temples such as the one I had spent so long imprisoned in by fools, had returned. Andtheir leader was in my cell here in the monastery wing. For once I hoped the Parcae, the dark mistresses who delivered the prophecies to I and the other aurguris, had sent someone. That way the gods would have been behind the attempt to free us, or at least not disapproving of it.
The shutters were set back and the snow stopped, as I sat up, and sought out the clothes I had set out the night before on the stool beside my cot. Only to find something other than the flimsy robes the Decemviri had ordered priests to wear since their takeover. These clothes were things as familiar as the blade now in my hand for the first time in half a century. The flannel lined leather jerkin and pants, a pair of well broken in riding boots, my favorite belt, and thick warm woolen socks, new by the feel and smell. I could not resist the attempt to smile, despite the burn scars on my face that made that very difficult.
These were not clothes for staying in place, but ones for traveling long distances. It took a few fingers of sand falling in the horium for me to get my legs over the edge of the cot, and into the pants. As with my face, my legs bore the scars of that fight I had relived before waking, and did not work well in cold weather. The feel of the flannel on my skin was welcome, letting the warmth stay in my clothes. The socks took time to put on, not from any error, its just after years of sandals, I forgot your heel has a spot it goes and I could not see it anymore. It took several tries for each foot to get them on right.
My cursing elicited a few soft chuckles from the visitor. "Quintas Billenius Varus, such language, and from an Augur."
I let my frustration come into my voice. "Thirty years without your sarcasm, Didius. I almost would have enjoyed it, if not in the hands of the Centurions of the Decemviri."
The chuckles ended, and his voice took on a serious tone. "Well this I can promise you, Augur. You will not be given back to the less than tender mercies of those fools without a fight. The Ordo Triarium have returned to the island. This time we will not give way to their wishes. You will walk free today, my young friend."
Being called a friend always warms my heart, but the words before had left a chill in my bones, not from the dump of snow. I had to voice my own concern. "Or be headed to my next life?"
Didius laugh this time was not soft. It was loud and warm. "Well, it seems you wish to live again. I will do what I can to prevent your death, even if it means giving my own life." Despite the laughter, I sensed a finality in those words. Such resolve far too oft had led to death for those who said such.
I struggled with the boots, cursing the man who invented their lacing, and the lack of eyes to ensure I was in the right holes. This added fuel to my cell mate's humor. I was beginning tow worry about attracting attention of the guards, when a knock came at the door. Not the normal pounding of the Centurions, but a rhythm beat, one I had heard many times when the Triarium had guarded the temple before the Decurian takeover of the island.
There was a rattle of gathered weapons and the squeak of hinges that had long needed oiling. Then the weapons were rattling down the halls as the door creaked shut. "Terrible how they have let the maintenance go," was the comment Didius made.
"No password? I thought you were more cautious." I had to jibe back, at last managing to get the left boot tied, and now reaching for the right one.
"We are past the time the Centurions can stop us, Billenius." Didius warm laugh filled the room. "Besides, few have as ugly a face as Cethegor."
I shuddered at the implication there was no turning back for the various Triari at this point. Despite the warmth in his voice, Didius was a commander, and people were just tools to use, and dispose of to most of that rank. That he was the leader of the Ordo Triarium meant he had to be willing to risk his Triari, to save the lives of others. I was not sure my life was worth any number of lives.
I wanted to know what the plan was, but I was sure Didius would not tell me . Which is the same as I would have done during my time in the Custodi, the border guards. Those being saved needed to know only the details they would encounter, not all of the plan, so there would be less chance of confusion in moments of great need of speed and precision. So we waited, as I took on the task of dressing, cursing the lack of someone to help me, the designers of garments, and my own lack of forethought on the scabbard of Specula. The last truly was embarrassing, as I had taken great pride in making this sheath while in Pelori, sitting at the same table as Didius most of the time that I crafted it.
To pass the time, I asked one thing I could not tell myself anymore. "What hora is it?"
"Last before dawn, and by sunset you will be off this island. We will move shortly, and once our spears are raised, we shall have need of all speed." His voice was now matter of fact, that skill of a true commander of soldiers. "If you find yourself needing help, do not hesitate to ask for it, Billenius. You were being poisoned by the Centurions here, to keep you from healing further, and to induce visions and prophecies they could use."
Tingles of fear went up my spine. To tamper with prophecy was to invite the wrath of the Parcae, and the dark mistresses who delivered Fates were vindictive bitches, even if they were the goddesses of all gifted with foresight and prophecy. Chilling tales were told to children around campfires, and in the seminary here to young flamenis, of the vengeance the took on those who warped their gifts to mortals for personal gain.
"Which poison?" Even I could hear the fear in my voice, as I asked this.
"Venom of the Basilisk. Irpex. And we found iron shavings in the water barrels." Winds of fear ripped my anima, the thing others call a spirit. There are no more dangerous or deadly toxins to my kind than those. Irpex was a hallucinogen, and mind numbing drink. Harrow, some called it, for it plowed the mind over like that tool of farmers. That I was still sane and breathing was a miracle.
"You say found? How long was the iron in the water?"
He chuckled then. "Billenius, never were you not under our hand. What the Centurions administered themselves, we could only apply antidotes, but the water was a thing those we set here allowed none to drink." I heard a canteen being opened, the tin of the container ringing a bit. "Speaking of water, I have something here a bit stronger, which counters Irpex, or so we have found." The slosh of the liquid released an aroma I had much experience with over the years.
"That potato poison of the Karleekie?" My nose tried to wrinkle up, which the damage to my face made painful. "It works as more than a weapons cleaner?"
The humor in his voice said he got the joke. "A quick sip, will purge most of what little they snuck past those I left here, but it will be days before you are whole again." Cold metal pressed to my palms, as he set the flask in them. It took quite a few heartbeats to screw up my courage and brace my throat for what was to come. Not that one can truly brace yourself for vodka. My time in Pelori served me somewhat, that great "Pah!" that the dwarves give after slinging back a small glass of the stuff does keep the back of your mouth from burning too much.
But it felt like the rest of the time we waited was spent with me coughing from the swig I had taken.
Then the hall erupted in a furor, as many of my fellow flamenis were being awakened less than politely. As I sat there, I wondered why I had been alerted before the others. Again, this was part of the plan I might never know the reasons of. Two bellows reached my ears as some resisting souls were hauled to the cells at the end of the hall, not the temple entrance. And by the voices, I knew that there would be two less guards to deal with on the way out, but I wished I had been in the hall to kick them both, as they had often struck me when they had the chance.
The creak of the door was followed by yet another voice I knew, of a Numen hinted at being here already. "Commander, the spears are raised." The draft in the room increased, telling me he had opened the portal further. "Billenius, you look like strecus."
The only way to deal with a direct insult is to return another jovially. "Come now, Cethegor, surely you can insult me better than that. Mercae is closer to my certain pasty white complexion these days, or has being a clerk dulled your wit?"
Laughter, even in moments like these, is a good thing to hear. Especially when from the heart. "You knew it was me in the library?"
"Your kind of face creates shock waves in the air when it is shook in negation, Cethegor. One does not need eyes to detect it." I was falling back to the ways from before my blinding, but I was at the moment marking that to effects of a shot of vodka on an empty, and still protesting I might add, stomach. Once, as a member of the Custodi, recently discharged, these men had treated me as both charge and equal. They had even tried to temper the arrogance that had led me and my friends to the Fate that caused my current condition. We had shared tales, complaints, drinks and meals, even talked late into the night around hearths long left by others who needed more that a few glasses of sleep every four days.
These two were reminding me of what I had been, and thus that it was a much a part of the current me as the last fifty winters was. My heart lifted at the thought that these two at least did not see me as a cripple, just one still on the mend. I stood up, only to find arms catching me, as I discovered the way I had set Specula's sheath was not one conducive to walking, without an adjustment at least.
The hall, once I had my gear set right, was a long walk, but one I was willing to make, having the hope of freedom at the end of it. With each step something of resolve settled in. It did help, having two strong sets of legs on either side of me. Then, rather than heading right to the back door, we turned left to the front entrance of the temple. My thoughts raced, I had no clue until now that they meant this to be an open confrontation. The east exit at dawn, if my mind still registered the rising and setting of the sun correct in my blind state, was something omens marked as being of great moment. And yet of late, other than this morning, many of my dreams had been of sunrise on the steps. Gods and goddesses, why had I been so blind to the portents. But then, a seer's mind is clouded about events affecting them personally.
I knew by the incense when we had reached the vestibule, and the slowing steps told me they were using the sunrise as their signal to move out. The hall was cluttered with many voices, some I knew well, others vaguely remembered, and quite a few strange indeed to my ears, even if they held the ring of chablys in them that spoke of the spears they bore. And by the babble, most of the flamenis, my fellow priests, were just finding out today was their day of freedom, and not all were certain it was wise.
At the threshold, we got our first direct taste of the confusion and anger. Lucia Velina, the high priestess was protesting loudly, until she must have recognized my escorts and myself. Her diatribe died off in a sudden stutter as we stopped, hopefully out of arms length, she tended to speak with her hands, something I knew as being blind made it difficult for me to avoid some of her gesticulations. Not to mention her use of a shoulder punch to signal she was tired of speaking with you.
"Senex." The word passed her previously loud mouth as a whisper, the noting of the age of the one who led the Triari, and his power over temples and priests.
"No arguing, Lucia, I told you last time we spoke, this foulness must end. I have the Centuria Media taking command of the young Imperatrix, to get her to safety, and as many others in the line of succession as we can." The voice Didius spoke with reminded all he had two ranks, one even I had forgot. He was also the Praetor Perfectus of the Praesidi, the guards of the imperial family and senate. And while the Praesidi rarely were seen these days, all knew they were still there. Too many of the senators had survived assassination attempts of late. That was a gossip not even the Decemviri could keep from the temples.
There are days I wish folks had bells or rattles on their heads, for those silent head motions of acceptance or denial. But as nothing further was said, I took it our great leader had submitted to the authority invoked by Didius. I could feel the rising of the sun, in more than just the figurative sense. In one way alone, my eyes being gone had not left me blind. My folk have a third eye, as we call it, deep within our brains, that lets some few perceive the auras of the living. I was lucky in that my vision that way is blocked for a while after by dreams of prophecy. But the warmth of the sun is a wash of power even that cannot block entirely. I could feel that power, even still "see" it, a warm orange glow, so bright even still beyond the horizon, I dared not look at it with even that internal eye.
I started to perceive the auras about me more, as just that bit of focus on the sun awoke that sleeping ability. Tinges of colors formed in my head around me, hints of the person they each belonged to in them. In their colors, vibrations and brightness, it the way streamers of thoughts flowed. Cethegor and Didius were like the sun, steady, intent on a purpose, not wavering, save a steady thrum, much like the beat of a heart. Others were flickering wildly, in a panic. One was weak, but steady, tinged with many colors and a shiver to its whole that hinted at anticipation. That aura was of Mactator, who professed no gens and had been in the temple longer than any other remembered. I would not have expected him to be in one of the ones fleeing this day.
More cold air surged around us, so I knew the doors were open. And by the sudden shift of those around me, not by the plan. Two auras I knew too well, over our time of imprisonment. Sticcius and the Cato, the Centurion in charge of the temple and the Censor, the one in charge of the city for the Decemviri. Both their auras were sick with their sadistic tendencies. These two felt the best way to deal with priests was a fist to the head as a greeting.
"What is going on here. Get these fools back to their cells. Sticcius, I thought you said they had been behaving." The deep voice of the Cato was rough as his punches. "The blind one especially..."
I faced the auras, and tried to bring up the corners of my mouth. It hurt like hell, and was something that took enough effort that I felt the moisture of sweat building in the places on my body still able to release it. But just to see the confused flames of these two auras was more than enough to make my day one worth being here for. I did not have to see faces to know why those auras were dying. That many spears in the hall would intimidate even a greater number than two. But who held the spears must have shocked them.
"Cato, the gods have spoken, and the time of your holding of the temples is over. We are taking all the flamenis under our care. If you wish to argue this, I have someone here you can speak with about it." There was no mercy or love in the voice of Didius as he addressed the fools. Sticcius flame seemed to be fading, something I had long associated with movement away from me. And as the door was the only place he could move to, I knew that his cowardice was showing. Give him a foe he could beat easily, and he still preferred an unfair fight.
Then another aura, one I did not recognize moved to fill the doorway and the wash of warm light there that made all other auras fade. Save this one. It burned intense as the fires that still tormented my dreams, but was smaller in size, silver and blue flames with a hint of purple in them. Each tendril of that blaze of light leapt randomly about, yet were sharp in their outlines. Someone unpredictable yet focused had joined us.
There was a quick scuffle, during which I heard Sticcius shout out an alarm, and heard answers from beyond the portal. Then his aura was tossed past me with the battle cry of my gens thundering in a voice deeper than any spoken yet this day, and more melodic.
"CATO! You coward! Draw that gladius you still wear and face me!" Ringelius' voice, my cousin who had been cast out by the Decemviri upon their takeover. He had a long list of grievances with the powers that ruled our lands now, and with the Cato in particular. He had been born with a condition that was anathema to those of the islands, being short and stocky like a dwarf, not tall and lean as most of our kind. Any deformities, any condition of birth that made one weak and ill, those were despised on the islands, and those from that land were cruel in their enforcement of the laws they had on others. Had my cousin been born in the last thirty winters, he would be as dead as so many other children, left staked out in the grasslands for the beasts to dispose of the shame they claimed his deformity brought.
Feet were starting up the stairs outside as a whistling noise began from the door. A noise I new well, the sound of a dwarven hammer being spun in the air. Ringelius had taken to the ways of the Karleekie over the years he had traveled, and their weapons suited him better than a saber, but with a gladius or spatha he was the match for any in the lands. The Parcae had opened their chest of dangers to the ones who had frustrated their will. This was one Fate they had never dreamed to face, I could tell by the fearful shiver in the Cato's aura.
I heard a gladius slide out of its sheath, then steps not towards his foe, but the high priestess. I cursed softly, knowing it was time for action, my hand dropping by instinct of a hundred years before my loss of vision to the hilt of my acinias. I heard similar words and motions from others, as weapons were shifted for use, as well as the commotion amongst my fellows in fear of blood being shed in the temple, always a bad omen.
Cato rasped loudly his challenge. "To get to me, Detastio, you will have to kill a flamena. Then you will confirm the death sentence you are here in defiance of, fool!"
The whirling hammer slowed, but not much. "Step outside, and face me like a real viri. You win, they stay, I win, they leave." There was a chill in that voice now, one deeper than the one in the air. "You have said I am here as a dead man, show us all how the Censor carries out executions. Or can you only kill cripples and the lame?"
The Cato was a proud man, one who had risen on a reputation of fierceness and skill, but allowed ruthlessness and hatred to rule him. There were tales he was the greatest of the warriors of our kind, yet others said there were some even better. Deep in the aura of that Numen burned a pride in his skill, and somehow my cousin was taunting it out. I could see the desire in this oppressor of so many years flaring up, to fight a fair fight again, and take the lead. But one of the few said to equal him in skill was my cousin. And one other in this room, who had stood against a draka and fought on after serious injury.
In the sudden silence as the Cato weighed the odds, another sound broke the quiet. That of a saber leaving its scabbard. I did not remember drawing Specula. But it was there, hilt in my left hand, and the blunt back resting in my upturned right palm.
"Or would I be more to your tastes, Sextus Strabo Cato." I turned my face in a way over the years of beatings and other of his amusements I had found to disconcert him, break his rage into fear of the unknown. The Trairium all murmured in amazement, save two. Cethegor had known I was able to still perceive the auras, and used it in self defense. And few things ever startled Didius.
"Augur, bide." The voice of the commander of the spearmen was soft, not challenging my right, but cautioning me.
My rage was up though. "A Custos takes an oath, and while we serve only a set time, we agree to protect the weak and defenseless, Lorcius." Using a family name was a trait many warriors seemed to share of all races of the world. It was like a password to remind others you had served, and were one who could take care of yourself. My blade shook slightly in my hand, as I spoke. "Step outside, and face me, Cato. I fear not the Censor in a fight. And I do not need eyes to beat your backstabbing ways. I remember whose kin came for me in the desert before I walked the Paths of Damnation."
Murmurs erupted, as many were reminded of who that one who had faced the Queen of Flame and lived was. Yes, I had help, and many had died. But she had been driven away in the end, by a saber, an axe and a hammer. And the saber and the hammer were in the hall in that moment.
The cries of Lucia as she hit the floor and the Cato bolted out the door seeking safety in numbers without ended the standoff, but once he crossed the threshold, the hammer picked up speed and followed him out the portal. I almost wanted to follow my cousin down those steps to the fight I knew was coming. But a hand held me back, that of Didius.
A warm laugh rang in the temple. "I would say you won, Billenius. The Cato fled a fight with a blind man, who was bluffing."
"I don't bluff when it comes to protecting those who need it." My voice is harsh, even to my own ears since my injuries. Flame can be breathed in, and harm lungs and vocal chords, they say, and few live past such, no matter how shallow the fires descend their throat.
The spearmen were moving out now, stepping into the fray that was erupting in the street out front. As I walked out the doors for the first time in a long time, as a free man.
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