Mortality: The Story of Mortanius

Chapter Thirty-Six

The following morning revealed the true extent of the massacre. Mortanius remained awake all night and throughout the entire day, trying to manage the efforts to remove the bodies and put them to rest. Moebius had organized a search party to try and track down the assassin Vorador, but of course it was a pointless and futile attempt. Vorador was long gone, returned to his hidden lair in the Termogent Forest.

Six members of the Circle of Nine had been slain. In addition to that unspeakable tragedy, fourteen Temple servants had died with them, and twenty-three Sarafan soldiers. In the light of morning, they discovered that all six of the Sarafan Knights – Raziel and his compatriots – were dead as well, slaughtered in the Grand Hall.

Almost fifty people dead in a single night. It was hard to conceive of such an atrocity. A direct assault on the Temple of the Guardians was simply impossible to imagine. With so many Sarafan soldiers, they believed they were safe. But even if they had anticipated such an attack, they never believed in their wildest dreams that Vorador himself would come. Vorador had kept himself hidden for so long that some people speculated that he had died centuries ago, and the half-breeds merely repeated the rumor of his presence to keep the Sarafan guessing. Up until now, no one really knew what Vorador was doing or what he was capable of.

He had single-handedly killed two dozen Sarafan soldiers like they were defenseless children, and even the Sarafan Knights, the most skilled warriors in the entire Sarafan Order, were cut down like dogs. It was difficult to comprehend how Vorador could have killed so many.

After his brief encounter with Mortanius, Vorador had gone back downstairs, where he had apparently slain the Sarafan Knights. The sword they killed Janos with – the one with the curved blade and skull design – was missing, apparently stolen by Vorador.

As the leader of the half-breeds left the Temple, Malek faced him in combat and fared just as poorly as the rest of his men. Malek was the most skilled warrior in Nosgoth, and Vorador defeated him in just a few moments. That he managed to stay alive long enough for Mortanius to bind his soul was a testament to the man’s nearly unbreakable will. He was the only person to face Vorador in combat and survive. Mortanius was the exception, because Vorador intended for him to live.

Most of the surrounding towns and cities knew about the massacre by now. Moebius had composed and sent messages to inform the populace, and by mid-morning, people began to arrive to see the result of the slaughter first-hand. Hundreds of shocked onlookers watched as the victims were taken out of the Temple. By the afternoon, the crowd numbered in the thousands. People cried and wailed, heartbroken by what they saw.

All of the bodies were wrapped in white shrouds. For now, there was nothing to distinguish between a Guardian of the Pillars and the lowliest Temple servant. Eventually, the Sarafan soldiers and the Temple servants would be handed over to their families for funeral services.

The Guardians would be burned in a pyre together as soon as possible. Likely, it would have to wait until the next day, once Moebius had returned and other important local leaders had time to travel to the Temple to pay their respects.

Mortanius sat alone in one of the small study rooms on the main floor, staring out the window. The room had a rather pleasant view of the lake, but the scenery did little to elevate his mood.

He needed to sleep and he needed to bathe. He had not even changed his clothes from the night before, and they were stained with the blood of his friends. After spending all morning dealing with the people outside, he decided that he could not take it any longer. His head pounded and he wished he knew some spell to dull the pain. But without the pain, all he could feel was a dismal, terrible emptiness.

They would have to start all over again. It would take years to track down and locate all of the new Guardians. And just like in the years after the rebellion, they would have to try and train several new Guardians all at once. He and Moebius had barely managed it the first time, and they were both too old to be dealing with children anymore.

Kelredar. Sirine. Olantireth. Rashard. Palton. Ellendra. Six of the most powerful people in all of Nosgoth, gone in a single night. How could they ever hope to replace the knowledge and wisdom and experience of so many Guardians?

Despair and misery seemed to well up from deep inside him until he felt like he was drowning. He wished that Vorador had killed him. He didn’t want to live with this responsibility. He wondered if he could follow in the footsteps of his predecessor and take his own life. If Vorador wouldn’t do it, then maybe Mortanius would do it himself.

Footsteps in the hallway dragged him away from his suicidal thoughts. He did not turn to see who was there, because he already knew. The heavy clunk of boots gave away the identity of his unwanted visitor.

“Mortanius,” Malek said. “They said I would find you here.”

“I had to get away for a little while,” he answered in a quiet voice.

“Yes, so did I.”

Mortanius said nothing, and Malek came into the room and walked over to the window, his hands folded behind his back. He wore a plain steel cuirass scrounged from one of the armories, over a shirt of chain mail. His ornate Sarafan breastplate was mangled and ruined now, having been cut from his body before the ritual to allow his gaping chest wound to be crudely stitched shut. After the resurrection, he had methodically washed away the blood and gore and dressed in new clothes, and at first glance he seemed almost normal.

“The servants are afraid of me now, I think,” he said with a calmness that made Mortanius’s skin crawl. “The commoners have not discovered the truth yet, but they will. It will take time for them to understand what has been done to me.”

“If you wish for me to end the spell, just say the words,” Mortanius said.

Malek gave a short shake of his head but did not look at Mortanius. He breathed in and out, even though breathing was no longer necessary. Now, it was merely done out of habit. “No, not yet. I will accept this new state for the time being. I will accept this as a punishment for my failure.”

“It’s not a punishment,” Mortanius started to say.

Malek held out a hand to stop him. “I failed the Circle. My duty was to protect them. I failed the others and I failed you as well. If this is the price I must pay, then so be it.”

He could not have protected them, could not have saved them. Vorador had effortlessly cut his way through two dozen Sarafan soldiers, and the Knights as well, in order to assassinate the Guardians. If Malek had been there, he would have been slain. Nothing would have changed. Mortanius wanted to say this, but it made no difference.

Instead, he said, “I’m sorry for the loss of your men. Their deaths are no less tragic than the deaths of the Guardians.”

“Thank you. They died bravely fighting to save the Circle. Nothing else can be asked of them. I plan to honor their sacrifice. I’ll build a shrine for them, a sacred tomb where they can be laid to rest with all the honor they deserve.”

Mortanius didn’t know what to say to that either, so he said nothing. Malek, in life, was a man defined by his barely constrained anger. Death, it seemed, had removed the most prominent part of his personality, making him seem even more inhuman. And yet, he was still the Guardian of Conflict. The ritual to bind his soul had transferred his connection to the Pillar as well, as Mortanius had discovered. All of the Guardians were immortal, but Malek was more than just immortal now, he was truly deathless.

“I’ll need your help, Mortanius,” he said. “I’ll need help with many things.”

“Yes, of course.”

“First, we must mourn the dead and regain our strength. Our first priority is to locate the new Guardians, but that will take some years to accomplish. Meanwhile, the Sarafan have been decimated, and I do not believe the Order can recover from this.”

“You can recruit new men,” Mortanius suggested.

“No,” Malek said, “I mean the Order cannot continue after what has transpired here. The Sarafan Order was founded to eradicate the vampires, and their mission is complete. Perhaps it’s best if the Sarafan Order ends here. In its place, I will create something stronger and better suited to the modern world.”

“If that’s what you want. But I can’t help you with that.”

“What I need your help with is this,” Malek said, gesturing at his own body. “When we find the new Guardians, I want to help you raise them and train them. That is my responsibility as much as it is yours. But to do that, I must … I must still look alive.”

Mortanius lowered his gaze. “Yes, I understand.”

“I’ll wear my armor, as I always have. But my face …”

“There are illusions I can create to disguise your appearance.”

“I would be grateful.”

“How long … how long do you intend to remain as you are?”

Malek looked at him, his expression unreadable. “As long as it takes.”

“As long as it takes for what?”

“Vengeance,” Malek said. “Vengeance for those we’ve lost. I’ll assist you and Moebius in the training of the new Guardians, as I’ve said. But once that’s done, I will begin my personal quest to hunt down Vorador and bring him to justice. I will not rest until he’s dead. Once I’ve fulfilled that vow, only then will I ask you to set my soul free.”

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