Champions Vol. 02

Themistokles regretted having to leave Exitibus when he was finally so close, but the orders of the High Inquisitor could not be ignored. He hoped that Phoebe and Varus would have success in finishing what he started, but if they did not he was determined to find and punish the criminal he had pursued for over a year.

He was also wary. He had done everything he could to exit the city quietly, without notice; but there was still a chance that one of Galen's allies knew of his departure. Thus his will was focused on maintaining a spell he had cast before departing the temple. It would alert him to the presence of anyone up to 100 meters away that wished him harm, and was one of many secret incantations taught to inquisitors. Unfortunately, maintaining it at maximum range as he was drained his magical reserve.

Half an hour later he was thankful that he had decided to cast it, as someone who harbored a powerful hatred of him came in range. Then another, and another, until there were so many that he could not easily tell how many men there were. He had just entered the woodland south of the city, and he suspected that these men were lying in wait for him to enter their ambush. His spell was unknown outside of the Inquisition, and they would have no reason to suspect that he was alerted to their presence.

Projecting the appearance of a man in no hurry, Themistokles slowed his mount and looked about slowly, as though calmly searching for something. Finding it, he led his horse to a nearby clearing in the forest, and dismounted. Carefully monitoring the locations shown by his spell, he set about making camp, as though he planned to bed down for the night. It was time to turn the tables on these criminals.

* * *

"What is he doing," Darios whispered harshly.

"What does it look like idiot?" whispered back Galos angrily. "Obviously he is making camp."

"What do we do?" Darios continued quietly.

"Are you soft-headed?" Galos replied in exasperation. "We wait for him to bed down then slit his throat in his sleep. Tell the rest of the men to get comfortable, it will likely be an hour or two before we can move in."

Darios slowly and carefully made his way to the others, passing on the plan. Galos lamented that he was forced to work with the imbecile. He had no head for strategy, but was the most skilled man he had in navigating these woods. The fool was good enough that he could sneak up on a grazing deer and slit its throat with a knife; but dumb enough to think doing so was better than shooting it from a distance. Once all the men had been notified of the plan, Darios returned and Galos sent him ahead to alert them once the inquisitor was asleep.

Galos had no idea why the Night Lord wanted this priest dead, but he was neither courageous nor stupid enough to question the order. They had single-use protective amulets that would have helped with the attack; but they were ridiculously expensive, and Galos had chafed at the thought that his entire troop would have been forced to use them on a single mark. Now it looked like this job would be as easy as the one Lycese had done on that old fool Pelagios.

After less than an hour of waiting, Darios returned.

"He is asleep," the man whispered to his troop leader. "He cast some sort of magic on the camp," Galos cringed at his words, "but I could not hear what it was and saw nothing happen. It was probably a spell of cleansing before he bedded down."

Galos felt a mixture of relief and suspicion. The inquisitor must have ridden hard to reach them so quickly, a dangerous thing so late at night. Then for him to stop and rest here of all places, in sight of the ambush but just short, made little sense. However, it was common for travelers to cleanse themselves before sleep, and he knew of no spells that would interfere with their work this night. Once the priest fell asleep, there was no conscious will maintaining the spell.

Resolved, Galos ordered his men up and forward. They would send in Darios to complete the task, while the rest of the troop stayed far enough back that their less skilled movements would not alert the sleeping priest. They would be close enough to move in if something went wrong.

Once the men were in position, Darios crept forward. Moving with great care, the man inched closer and closer to his target. Finally, he was within striking range, and Galos saw the glint of his blade reflecting the fire light as it slashed forward for the killing blow.

"What?"

Darios' exclamation cut through the night, surprising the crouching men. The bedding that was occupied by the sleeping inquisitor a heartbeat before was now empty.

"Where did he go?" hissed Galos.

"YOU ARE CHARGED WITH CRIMES AGAINST EROS," boomed a voice in the darkness which surrounded them. "SURRENDER, OR FACE JUDGEMENT."

*** Chapter 18: Nobody Expects the (Spanish?) Inquisition ***

302108APR13 DW

South of Exitibus, Erosius

Themistokles waited tensely in the darkness, his body a coiled spring. He suspected these men would refuse his demand, and was already prepared to fight. There were twelve of them, by far the most he had ever had to face. Further, he had tired himself greatly from holding his detection spell earlier. Worse, these men had knowingly planned an ambush for him, so they were likely prepared for his magic. None of that mattered now though, he was committed to finishing this.

He observed the men carefully, amusement sparking within him as they cursed and argued with each other in the night. Finally one man shouted them down and called out, "Show yourself, Inquisitor, I will not surrender to a voice in the darkness!"

Themistokles scoffed internally at the idea. He would not give up what little surprise he had left willingly. Chanting the simple spell to amplify his voice once more he replied, "I AM NO FOOL, RUFFIAN. SURRENDER NOW!"

The spokesman cursed, and began to shout orders for the men to form a defense. They intended to resist. Bowing to the inevitable, the inquisitor reversed his sound incantation and pushed more of his magic into it. The woods ten meters in every direction from him was swathed in absolute silence. As long as he maintained the spell no spoken magic could be cast.

Moving forward, he no longer worried of being quiet. In the thick forest the two moons cast little light, so there were many shadows for him to hide in. He had already identified his first two targets. Both men were far from the group, and were following their leader's commands grudgingly. As his circle of silence descended upon them without notice, and he was within ten feet of the first by the time the man realized that he could no longer hear sound.

Like all members of Eros' clergy, inquisitors were taught that life was precious, and every effort should be made to preserve it. However, as the enforcers of peace they were also taught that sometime the preservation of life was not always possible. When faced with criminals who had committed murder, or those prepared to kill in order to resist capture, inquisitors were trained to meet violence with violence. Sometimes that resulted in the serious injury, and even death, of their targets.

Priest Pelagios already lay slain by criminals who had not been caught, and there were two alert riders who had disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Themistokles suspected that these men, or allies of theirs, were responsible for those actions. Further, their obvious attempt to kill him in his sleep indicated that they had no respect for the sanctity of life. If he did not stop these men tonight, others might fall prey to their bloodthirst.

Rushing the final distance, Themistokles swung his mace hard into the man's head, crushing his skull instantly. He regretted the necessity of the act, but he was far too outnumbered to risk restraint. Many of these men would die this night, and despite their evil actions his heart was heavy. But he needed to thin their ranks quickly to have any hope of victory.

Moving swiftly he raced to the other man, who had noticed the absence of sound and was turning to find his companion. The inquisitor was a few strides from him when his target realized his peril.

Themistokles raised his shield and mace, charging his target. The man set himself to meet the charge, raising his sword to deflect Themistokles overhand strike. Their weapons met one another silently, but the man had no time to feel relief at the easy parry for the inquisitor's true attack was still coming. There had been no weight behind the strike, it had merely been necessary to distract his foe from the true attack. Themistokles did not slow a bit as his raised shield and crashed squarely into the man's chest, blasting air from his lungs and knocking him to the ground. The inquisitor move forward and finished his attack, swinging with all his strength at the man's now unprotected head.

Two down, Themistokles thought sadly to himself as he rose from his grisly work. Battle was a brutal and often ignoble thing, but the Inquisitors of Eros were well trained in its necessity. Looking quickly toward the remaining men, he realized that he had been spotted. Three of the remaining men were trying to shout a warning to the others, but they were at the edge of his circle and no sound was coming forth.

The inquisitor hesitated, wondering if there was a way to finish the night without ending more lives. Three against one would be a tough fight, especially with the silence limiting his magic. However, it was far better odds than ten against one with magic, and it might allow him to thin their ranks further. Just as he resigned himself to the necessity of further bloodshed, two of the men turned and ran towards the rest. They quickly exited his circle and their shouts alerted the rest of the group, though Themistokles obviously could not hear what was said while still inside his circle.

Frustrated at the missed opportunity, the inquisitor charged off into the night. He had to return to his prepared position and wait to see if they would come for him. As much as he hated it, it appeared that further death would be dealt by his hands this night.

* * *

"We are under attack!" shouted Nereos and Solon as they raced back to the center of the group.

Cursing Galos turned to look past them, toward where they had run from. He could barely make out the movement of a dark figure fleeing into the night. The dark robes and armor of the inquisitor made him a shadow moving among shadows in the woods.

"Torches," Galos commanded. Their element of surprise was lost, so there was no longer a risk of the light giving away their position. The darkness obviously seemed to favor this inquisitor, so they would battle his advantage with their light.

"Theron and Zosimos are already down," Nereos protested. "We should flee!"

Moving forward Galos backhanded the hysterical man across his face. "I will not return to the Night Lord and tell him we failed. Death at the hands of this inquisitor would be a warm comfort compared to what our Lord would do to us," he snarled.

"We could run," suggested Solon, as the final missing man, Myron, joined them. "Head east into the Dracian Forest then travel south to Lexia."

Galos shot the man a withering look. "Has anyone escaped the Night Lord's wrath? Ever!" he demanded of his troops.

"No sir," replied Praxiteles calmly, "and none of us should be fool enough to try."

Galos appreciated his support. Praxiteles was one of the oldest and longest serving highwaymen in his troop. While not the deepest thinker, he was reliable and unflappable.

"Solon, Nereos, steady yourselves," Galos ordered them. "Men, we will follow the inquisitor. Stay close together, no more than two arms lengths between you, and every other man carries a torch."

His troop jumped to follow his orders, and they were soon arrayed in a search line. Walking forward slowly, the line soon came upon the bodies of their fallen comrades. The men had already seen much death in their lives, and each among them had caused their fair share. However, seeing their companions lying in the dirt so easily dispatched shook many to their core.

Ordering his men to ignore the bodies, they continued forward. Darios, their best tracker, quickly found the inquisitors trail. Tightening his search line into a loose formation, Galos ordered his tracker to follow the trail and set two men with torches to protect him.

They would find this inquisitor, or die trying.

* * *

Watching the torchlight steadily approach his position, Themistokles prayed quietly for patience. He had dispelled his circle of silence once surprise was lost. It would do more harm than good now, alerting his adversaries to his location. He had hoped that his initial attack would scare them off, but they appeared undeterred.

The men searching for him would soon reach his trap, and he hoped it would be successful. Finally, their tracker reached the edge of the trap, and Themistokles held his breath. This was the moment when his plan would either succeed or fall to ruin. After a few moments of careful deliberation, the tracker moved forward once more, and the inquisitor breathed again. It would work!

The tracker and his two companions moved through the trapped area, and the remaining seven followed. As soon as they were centered on his trap, Themistokles chanted to dispel his construct. The ground below the group gave way, and five of them fell into his pit. The inquisitor winced when he began to hear the screams and wails of the men who had fallen, likely impaled on the many wooden spikes he had hurriedly fashioned from what branches he could gather in time. However, his moment of hesitation at his duty had already come this night. As the tracker and his guards turned in alarm to see what had befallen their comrades, Themistokles called forth his flagging magic and cast another circle of silence. This one was smaller, merely two meters distance, but it would be enough. This time his conscience was ignored as he leapt from his place of hiding and rushed to attack the distracted trio.

He was upon them in moments, and caved in the skull of the largest one before anyone noticed his presence. Turning to continue his attack, he was forced to raise his shield to block a panicked axe swing. One of the men had seen his companion fall, and had turned to swipe at the inquisitor. The tracker was just now realizing his peril, and backed away hurriedly while attempting to call for help.

Themistokles could not spare a moment to deal with him. The adversary engaging him was flailing his axe in terror. His attacks had no skill or finesse, but they were coming too fast for the inquisitor to effectively land a counterblow. The man was burning enormous amounts of energy with his efforts, and Themistokles was forced to wait for an opening.

Needing this fight to finish before the remaining criminals could reinforce his foe, Themistokles dropped his spell of silence and quickly cast a spell of telekinesis to force the man's weapon out of position, hoping he was unprotected. The inquisitor's magical reserve was nearly depleted, but the spell cost him little. If the man were unprotected then his remaining magic could easily swing the battle in his favor. Inquisitors received years of training in offensive magic, and one of the most valuable skills they were taught was how to maintain multiple spells at once. He sent forth the spell, hoping.

Nothing.

His adversary was protected, at least from telekinesis, which boded ill for his use of other types of magic. A mental attack might have been possible, but spells of that type required intense concentration. They were nearly impossible to multitask, and he would not be able to adequately focus in the middle of a fight.

Out of the corner of his eye Themistokles noticed movement, and he leapt away immediately. His duel had gone on too long, and reinforcements had arrived. The two men that had not fallen in the pit had returned with the tracker, and the leading man in the trio had attempted a wild sword blow at the apparently distracted inquisitor. Only his quick reaction had saved Themistokles. Backing away rapidly, the inquisitor put distance between himself and his enemies.

"I am still willing to accept your surrender," the inquisitor stated calmly.

The tracker hesitated at his words, and looked to the largest of the group questioningly.

"You heard the boss," the large one said to his companions. "Either he dies, or we do."

"Then have at," Themistokles replied, though the man's words had not been addressed to him.

Moving forward in concert, the four men made to surround the inquisitor. He had trained to fight as many as four on one, but any more than two held great risk. Casting his eyes about the area, Themistokles found something that might improve his odds. He began to move to his right, trying to lead his adversaries into position.

Suddenly the opponent to his left charged, and the inquisitor was forced to raise his shield to block. Moving swiftly, the other three charged as well, and Themistokles stepped quickly backwards to his left, circling the man he was already engaged. The move made his opponent an obstacle to his allies' approach as they were forced around him to engage the priest.

Stepping back quickly to give himself even more room, Themistokles softly chanted the spell he had prepared. It would take the last of his magic to do this, and the men were not optimally positioned for success. He hoped it would be enough.

Seeing him casting, the men hesitated, giving the inquisitor enough time to finish his incantation. When nothing happened, they smiled and charged. Obviously the spell had failed, and the men realized that their investment into the amulets had been worth it.

For the next few moments it was all Themistokles could do to defend himself from the flurry of attacks. He blocked with his shield, parried with his mace, and dodged frequently. He took a nasty cut on his side from a thrust that slipped past his defense, his leather armor deflecting the blow just enough. The pain was sharp, but his concentration held.

Finally it was time, and he bashed the adversary on his left in the face with his shield, causing the man to stumble backwards. Meanwhile he threw a wide swing with his mace, which forced the others back a pace. Darting backwards quickly, Themistokles focused all his will and remaining magic on the massive log he had levitated high behind his foes. He reversed the direction of his telekinetic hold, and the log hurtled downward at an angle.

When the log was within a foot of the men his spell was broken, but the log was already on its trajectory. It smashed into the legs of the two rightmost attackers, pulverizing their limbs. He had hoped to catch all three with the fallen tree, but his wild swing had caused the group to scatter somewhat. As the two crippled men wailed in agony the third and fourth quickly dropped their weapons.

"I surrender!" they both called out, kneeling before Themistokles.

The inquisitor was weary, his magic expended, but he forced himself to appear strong. Walking forward he bound the men quickly, and then moved to check on the remaining men in the pit. The two he had crippled with the log were in great pain, but their injuries were not life threatening. He had no idea how many of those in the pit survived, or how much damage his spikes had done.

Suddenly he felt an intrusion in his mind.

Well done priest, an unearthly deep voice echoed in his consciousness. I had hoped these fools would be enough to stop you.

Quickly Themistokles concentrated, trying to raise his mental barriers and force the voice from his head. He cursed the fact that he had depleted the last of his reserve in the fight. Chanting the words to protect his mind, he felt the headache begin. He was gambling his life to save himself.