Jay - Ahern's Burden
Hypocrisy

“What is this?” Prag asked, holding Flog’s scroll.

“A communication between the boy and his guardian.”

Prag rolled his eyes. “You have to bring something of value,” he said, tossing the scroll back to Flog. “How can I use a written communication?”

Flog stood in shock at his comment.

“I cannot grant you an audience,” Prag concluded. He ignored Flog’s disgust and turned back to his previous conversation.

Prag sat at the low end of the line leading up to some important people in Daisheen, the Idols’ capital city. Flog met him two years ago, and they had worked together on small tasks surrounding the capture of the boy. He wore flashy clothing and jewelry. He was not alone in his outward expression. Everyone in Daisheen waged a silent competition as to who could look the part best. They must have thought Flog homeless for the lack of care in his demeanor.

Flog didn’t care what anyone thought or what they had to do to meet with the right people. He didn’t want accolades, but he did want the reward. Flog didn’t know how Prag earned his connections or who he claimed to know but he should have known better than to turn his back on a Groodarian.

Flog grabbed Prag’s collar and removed the slack around his neck. Unable to call for help, Flog dragged him away.

Prag flayed his arms about, trying to break free while the others watched with amusement.

Flog threw him into a corner at the end of the hall, scattering two other groups of people.

“I will have an audience,” he said. “And since you refuse to take me to the Idols, you will have to do.”

Prag clutched at his throat. He tried to speak but could only force out a horse whisper. “They…don’t…see….”

“Quiet,” Flog said, squatting next to his victim. “Read it!”

Prag eyed his captor before moving his eyes to the parchment.

Flog watched his eyes grow more intense and his breathing softened. When he finished, Flog extended his hand and brought Prag to his feet.

Some onlookers had expected a fight. When it never materialized, they left disappointed.

Prag adjusted his clothing and cleared his throat. He tried to stand as dignified as one could who had been tossed across a room. “I will present your evidence to my contact,” he said holding out his hand.

“No,” Flog said, securing the scroll in his pocket. “It stays with me. This will be my audience.”

Prag looked at him with displeasure but couldn’t do anything. The throbbing in his throat reminded him that he could not intimidate Flog. “I will see what I can do,” he said. “Meet me in the entrance of the Hall of Requisition tomorrow, at mid-day. I will know by then if my contact can grant you what you seek.”

Mount Vintori sat as the pivot for the known world. Its peaks danced with the clouds and stretched out for miles in each direction. On a clear day the central range offered amazing views that never ended. It also provided a tactical advantage to whoever controlled its slopes. From its central location the Idols easily influenced the people’s affairs.

The Idols knew better than to throw away this advantage. They constructed the Hall of Requisition, their headquarters, in this strategic location. Their small city looked like a picturesque representation of a lost age. Designed to match the surrounding landscape, each of the buildings captured the inner beauty of the central mountain range. In its center, the Idols had built their new capital. They built their hall directly behind a small, well-maintained temple where the Idols meditated. In days past, the structure represented the last stop of an annual pilgrimage. Their leisurely, repetitive use had stripped the building of its sacredness.

They choose the area to exemplify longevity and endurance. They saw their order as the center of the world, in command of everything beneath them. And though it did command everyone’s attention and respect, those on the outside did not hold the same view.

The Hall of Requisition featured towering white marble facades protected by tall fluted Corinthian columns. The four sides were surrounded by ornate garden walkways. There were no windows in the building’s main level and the front door produced the only visible opening.

Flog passed through four checkpoints before he and Prag were allowed through the door. Once inside, their eyes had to adjust to near-blackness. A few small lanterns flickered against the distant walls and down dark corridors providing a soft, haunted appeal.

“Where is he?” asked Prag, looking down the corridor to his right.

Flog saw a few others walking around. “Can we ask one of these people?”

“No,” he said quickly, “don’t talk to anybody. My contact will approach me.”

Flog watched Prag panic as the time passed.

“Oh no,” Prag said with alarm.

“What?” Flog asked. Prag’s paranoia had exceeded his level of tolerance.

“The guards,” he said in a strong whisper.

“What guards?” Flog asked, looking around. “I don’t see...” And then he did.

Off to his right, he saw a flash reflect the light coming from the door. And then he saw the others.

Six guards slowly moved in, swords drawn. Their clothing matched the flat black decor of the room.

“We should not be here without an escort,” Prag said. “We need to leave.” He pulled on Flog’s arm, trying to get him closer to the door.

“What do you seek?” a low voice boomed, echoing throughout the room.

The sound halted the progress of the guards.

Flog yanked his arm away from Prag’s grip. “Tell them.”

Prag shook his head and stepped back.

Flog reached around and grabbed Prag’s neck. He leaned in and whispered forcefully into his ear. “Tell them!”

Prag hesitated and Flog tightened his grip.

He swallowed hard. “We seek an audience with the Idols,” he said in an apologetic tone, fearing his words would insult them. Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ (ꜰind)ɴʘvel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“The Idols see no one,” the low voice responded. The guards moved in closer.

Flog let go of his neck after the rejection.

Prag jumped back at the guard’s advance. “We must leave.”

Flog ignored him and turned his back to the door. “Article 14, Section 2 of the Verploux Mandate states if just cause is presented, the Idols will hear any individual or group requesting their presence.”

The guards continued their forward progress.

“Well?” asked Flog, looking around.

“If such a cause existed, the Idols would follow their mandate,” the voice responded.

“I am Flog, son of Dexor. I have evidence regarding the fugitive Ahern.”

The guards halted at the declaration. No one in the room moved. Even the few people walking around stopped to listen.

At the end of the hall, a small light appeared and grew until Flog saw a pathway.

“The Idols will hear your claim,” the voice said. “All others must leave.”

Flog took a step forward.

Prag took a step back and tripped over his robe. Four of the guards immediately made a half circle around him and he turned and crawled out of the hall. The two remaining guards escorted Flog to the lit pathway.

Several took notice and began to gather. They whispered and pointed when he walked past. He thought their matching black robes odd but pushed on to handle his business.

He entered the opening to the pathway and the door slammed behind him. His only option forced him to follow the thin flight of twisted stairs. At the top landing, he stood in a decorative white vestibule.

“Move to the center and make your claim,” said a different voice before he could admire his surroundings.

Once he stepped through the vestibule, Flog entered a vast, red, circular room. He saw six evenly spaced white thrones along the outer wall. Three to his right and three to his left.

These must be the Idols, Flog thought. The men sitting on the thrones wore layered, deep blue robes.

He tried to take in the grandeur but found it all too much. He didn’t know if their intent was to intimidate anyone in his position or if the design sprang from their ostentatious lifestyle.

In the center of the room, a single circular step waited.

He kept his head down most of the way. The flooring wasn’t a solid red but intertwined with gold veins glistening from the towering clerestory windows between the thrones. The ceiling reflected like water and Flog swore he saw a fish make his way across.

Once on the step, six guards, dressed in red, moved in and surrounded him. Flog stood with his hands half raised, waiting for instructions.

“Present your evidence,” said a voice over his left shoulder.

Flog reached into his pocket and produced the small scroll. He held it above his head and paused. He wasn’t sure when the law permitted him to speak. None of the documents he read gave instructions on how to make his presentation. He had to take a chance.

“The message I will read to you is between the wanted boy and his guardian.” He heard no objections and the guards held their positions.

Here we go.

He read the page in a clear distinct tone. When he finished, he put the scroll away and waited.

“Where did this communication occur?” asked a subtle voice to his right.

“Mount Cyprus.”

“He did it,” said a squeaky voice, almost right in front of him.

“Not possible,” stated an old voice.

“But he has the treasure,” stated yet a different, hushed voice.

“We don’t know what he has?” said the subtle voice.

“We need more witnesses,” stated the squeaky voice.

Flog didn’t turn around but moved his eyes back and forth trying to catch which Idol made the previous comment.

“Who brought you this communication?” asked a voice from behind.

Flog turned to address his questioner. “No one. I was there.”

“You saw the boy?” asked the hushed voice.

“Yes,” he answered, “I nearly apprehended him but...” He paused to gather the right words. “They got away.”

“How did they get away?” pried the old voice.

“They disappeared in a snow storm.”

“We delayed his guardian,” said the squeaky voice, “and you let them get away.”

“My preparations suffered setbacks,” Flog explained, “and the storm made it difficult to find the clearing.”

“The Wolf would have succeeded,” said the hushed voice.

“Hold fast,” said the old voice. “This Grood has shown his worth in this matter. Let’s see what else he has to offer. Do you have more information?”

“What do you mean?” asked Flog.

“We have not heard of a Seraphic in many years,” he started. “His existence is difficult to comprehend. We need to know everything you saw to determine the validity of your evidence. Did he do anything...impressive?”

What’s a Seraphic? Flog thought quickly, trying to hide his lack of knowledge. “He knocked us all to the ground.”

Flog saw the Idol in front of him raise his chin.

“And,” Flog continued, “I’m not sure how, but I believe the boy had special vision.”

“What brought you to this conclusion?”

“I have in my possession a device given to me from my father. It allows me to see heat against a colder background. I could see the boy through the storm.”

“A Tepid,” said an Idol, showing they were aware of what he used.

“Yes,” Flog confirmed. “We were concealed, and I know he could not see us when he entered the clearing. After he knocked us to the ground, I saw the boy. His eyes were glowing, and he looked to follow our movements.”

The room fell silent at his comment.

“I told you a Grood would be resourceful,” the old voice concluded. “Pay him.”

On cue the guards stepped back. To Flog’s right he watched a tall man come into view. Without speaking, he handed Flog a sack of coins.

“This should cover your expenses, and hardships,” said the old voice. “We no longer need your services. You are dismissed.”

The thin man walked away and Flog felt the weight of the bag. He didn’t need to look inside. He knew they had given him his reward.

Why? Flog thought to himself, struggling to keep his mouth shut. He didn’t understand why they wanted him to stay home. He knew the Idols wanted to arrest the young boy. Why would they exclude me? What is a Seraphic? Is that what they call someone practicing magic? There must be more.

“Why are you paying me?” Flog asked. “I haven’t caught the boy.”

“Your efforts have given us vital information,” said the deep voice behind him. “You should be grateful.”

“I am grateful,” Flog responded, genuinely, with a bow. “I simply fail to understand why you’re buying me out. I can still bring him to you.”

The unopened bag of coins flew out of Flog’s hand. It launched across the room and struck the thin man square in the back. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, and he slid on the polished floor until he collided with the far wall. He did not get up.

One of the first and most feared laws the Idols established after taking control outlawed sorcery. Flog had seen how quickly they would remove anyone suspected of practicing contrary to the law, intentionally or not. And now he knew they didn’t hold each other to the same laws. Somebody in this room was a sorcerer.

“If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life mining the pits at Thurn…” said an Idol from his right.

Flog turned to face him and saw a man in a flowing blue robe walking towards him. His hands began to glow green. They’re the sorcerers, he realized, and his feet left the ground. The feeling of weightlessness unnerved him. He tried to call for help, but his tongue wouldn’t work.

The Idol continued to move in his direction, waving his hands around in an unorthodox pattern. The glow grew in intensity.

For the first time since he walked into the hall, Flog feared for his life. Unable to control anything, he found it impossible to turn away from the approaching Idol.

His hands continued to wave, and his eyes began to glow as well. “You are forbidden to discuss what you have seen today, or your line will end with you.”

Flog watched the green glow rush towards him before he blacked out.

After crawling from the hall, Prag waited a safe distance for Flog to exit. At nightfall, he gave up and headed back down the mountain. At the base he secured a room and set off to find dinner. He would travel home in the morning.

“Mind your steps,” said an old man sitting by the door.

Prag stopped at the threshold with his hand on the frame. He slowly leaned back into the room.

The man had his back to the door, hunched over a drink. His disheveled appearance made Prag turn away. He smelled like a dead ox.

Prag thought about leaving, but his curiosity wouldn’t allow him. “Excuse me? What did you say?”

The man didn’t respond.

Prag rolled his eyes and left. He started to have second thoughts the deeper he walked into the city.

Duran, and her sister suburbs at the base of Mount Vintori were common slums with little order. They were also cities where many had disappeared.

The old man’s words bothered him as he walked to a bakery. Every few steps he checked his pocket to confirm his money sack remained on his person.

A block before he reached the bakery, a group rounded a corner towards him. Not knowing their intentions, he stepped back into the shadows and held his breath until they walked past.

“I don’t know what happened to him,” said a man on the far side of the street. “I found him like this.”

“Is he drunk?” asked his companion.

Still hiding in the shadows, the conversation caught Prag’s attention. He leaned in to catch more of their conversation, and to better see who they were carrying.

“I don’t know,” replied the first, as they moved on farther down the street. “Groods always look drunk to me.”

Groods, thought Prag. The crowd of men walked away and Prag abandoned his hunger to follow the two men. He saw them turn down a dark alley and disappear.

Prag quietly made his way to the alley’s opening and peeked around. The men were busy searching through the man’s pockets, discarding items they deemed worthless. He still couldn’t confirm the identity of the unconscious man, but he had to take the chance. It has to be him. I need it to be him.

He stole another quick glance and checked up and down the street. He waited for three women to pass and he pulled out his small crossbow. After two quick shots, Prag knelt beside the unconscious man.

It is him.

“Wake up!” Prag yelled in his face. He knew Flog was alive, but he couldn’t get him to respond. He slapped him, yelled at him, shook him, even kicked him, but he wouldn’t move. “Why won’t you wake up?”

Frustrated with his situation, he paced up and down the alley, stepping over the two other men. He thought about carrying Flog back to his room but knew it would draw unwanted attention. Then a water trough across the street caught his eye.

Why not.

After securing a bucket, he emptied its contents straight onto Flog’s face. Nothing happened.

Prag threw the bucket down the alley and squatted with his head in his hands.

“Ah!” Flog screamed, without warning.

The outburst knocked Prag off balance and he fell against the alley wall.

Flog opened and closed his eyes, then brought his hands up to cover his face. He looked around, disorientated, crawling, stumbling.

“Where am I?” he asked. “I can’t see.”

Prag regained his composure and helped Flog to his feet. “It’s Prag,” he said, “You’re in Duran. I don’t know how you got here. We were trying to meet the Idols.”

Flog held still at the mention of the Idols. “I remember,” he said, his eyes open wide.

“What did they say?” Prag asked. “Did they say anything about the boy?”

“No,” he responded.

“They didn’t say anything?” he asked in disbelief. “Your letter. Didn’t you tell them what you saw or what happened?”

“I need to go.”

“You can’t go,” Prag said, grabbing his sleeve. “You have to tell me what happened.”

“Let me go,” he said, shoving Prag away. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“You owe me,” he said, walking after him.

“Be happy I’m leaving you in the dark,” he said, walking into the street, his vision returning. When he reached the middle of the street he took a deep breath and rubbed the last of the blindness away. He turned back and grabbed Prag’s collar. “Don’t ask about it again,” Flog stressed. “If you follow me, I will tell the Idols you’re meddling in their business.”

High above Duran, Demetri and Seneca watched Flog get rid of Prag. Demetri shook his hands of the glow and their vision returned to normal.

“Why do you trust this Grood?”

“I don’t trust him,” Seneca said.

“You’re placing trust in him,” Demetri stressed.

“Have you found the Seraphic or Ahern?”

Demetri didn’t answer. He peered out the window, looking at nothing.

“We’ve sent other men to collect evidence,” he continued. “This is the most promising yet.”

Again, Demetri couldn’t contradict him. “What if he talks?”

“Who will believe him?” Seneca asked. “He’s a Grood. People hate Groods.”

“And if he succeeds?”

“Then we have the Garrison,” Seneca said, closing the window. “And with the Garrison, we’ll be one step closer.”

“You think the Seraphic has the Garrison?” asked Demetri.

“No one has the Garrison but Ahern,” Seneca corrected.

“I don’t agree with the trust you’ve given this man,” he said looking into Seneca’s eyes. “I believe he has something to prove.”

“Don’t we all?” Seneca asked.

The two men held each other’s gaze.

“Some more than others.”

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