Apostles of Doom

In any event, he and the high chamberlain had discussed this and other lesser matters not requiring the high pontificate for several hours, until High Pontificate Barolas had finally returned. It was at that point their planned two-hour meeting began. Once that had ended, he’d finally been able to use the chamber pot before doing some research on this Saint Hilda of Rivenrock. He’d have preferred to use the latrine, but had not wanted to break the wards. The wards provided him shielding from the camp and all the noises and distractions outside, and allowed him to concentrate in peace.

Now he wished he had not done the research into a book of saints that he possessed, at least not before bedtime. His research had created even more anxiety for him. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. This Saint Hilda appeared to be a rather large woman with blond hair and a vivacious personality. She was very similar in appearance and mannerism to the healer he and Barabus had met in Freehold, who, coincidentally, had also been named Hilda and who knew quite a bit about church protocol. She also, he had realized, fit the profile that the beggarmeister had brought to him of the “rogue” high priestess who was going around healing beggars.

Iskerus sighed loudly and stood to extinguish the wards and the candles. What was going on? None of this made sense! Was there a rogue saint running around the periphery of the church’s operations? If so, why? Why not come right out and have an Intercession? This was so against historical precedent that it made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

Enough! Bed! Iskerus thought to himself. He need to walk off a bit of this anxiety, and then get some sleep. He needed to get out of his tent, which had begun to seem like a prison for his worries, uncertainties and anxieties. The wards removed, Iskerus stepped out into the cool night. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the night air. So calm, so peaceful and quiet out here. He smiled to himself, glad for the respite. He began walking towards where the horses were penned. He would see if any of them were awake, maybe provide a few carrots to a lucky horse.

Iskerus was about halfway to the pens when he suddenly realized how truly quiet the camp actually was. He’d noted it before, but now, he stopped to look around, realizing that there was no activity or movement around the camp at all, as far as he could see. The only sounds were the crickets and a few snores as he had passed the tents. No one was wandering around; there were no late night fires where soldiers, unable to sleep, were tossing dice or telling tall tales. This was quite unusual. Iskerus frowned and then started as he noticed the flap to a storage tent suddenly open wide, yet silently, and someone hunched over began pulling something out of the tent. Silently. Too silently. No huffing, no scuffing, no sound of any sort. This was very odd.

Iskerus grimaced and marched towards the tent as a young man in the garb of a body servant was revealed to be dragging barding out of the tent. Iskerus went up to the young man, and as he reached out, sound suddenly returned.

“Watch for the strap there, it’s going to tangle on the pole!” Someone inside the tent said quite loudly.

“I’ve got it!” the young man with his back to Iskerus replied as he worked to maneuver something inside the tent.

“Excuse me, but what exactly are you two doing?” Iskerus demanded.

The young man with his back to Iskerus nearly jumped a foot in the air in surprise; there was a loud clattering noise inside as the man inside apparently dropped something.

“Oh, crap,” the voice inside said.

Iskerus stepped back, his hand on his dagger as the young man turned to face him. He looked very familiar, but Iskerus was unable to place him. From inside the tent, another, slightly older young man in ranger’s garb emerged.

“Who are you, and why are you up?” the man dressed like a ranger asked as if he was annoyed. The younger man just hung his head and stared at the ground.

Iskerus blinked. How presumptuous! How brazen of this man, who was clearly not part of the Rod or the Church, to demand this of him in his own camp. The man acted as if it was Iskerus who was up to no good. “I am the Arch-Diocate Iskerus, and this is my camp!” he stated firmly. “Who are you two, and what are you doing?”

The brazen young ranger sighed. “It figures.” He shook his head. “Why are you awake? you should be asleep like everyone else in the camp.”

“You have not answered my question. And based on your question, I must now ask, what exactly have you done to my people?” Iskerus asked angrily.

The ranger shook his head from side to side. He seemed not in the least bothered by being caught red-handed in the act of theft. If anything, he appeared rather put out that he had to bother with Iskerus.