Chosen of the Gods

those declared Foripon had all languished within its walls. The only way in or out was a long, narrow stairway that cut deep into the earth, guarded not only by a squad of handpicked Solamnic Knights, but also by glyphs graven into the walls that would burn anyone trying to escape to ashes. No one in the empire’s history had ever broken out of the dungeon, and Kurnos knew he wouldn’t be the first.

His cell was small, bare stone with a straw pallet, a clay pot for night soil, and nothing else. It had no windows-there was nothing to look out on anyway-and its thick, ironwood door blocked out all sound and light. The air was frigid, damp, and musty, and a strange, sharp smell hung in the air. The scent maddened him for hours as he tried to figure out what it was- then he recognized it, wishing at once that he hadn’t.

It was his own fear.

Kurnos had no idea how long he lay there, curled in a ball and staring at nothing. With nothing to see or hear, time became amibiguous. Hours might have passed, or days. In the gloom, his mind drifted back to the last time he’d ventured so far beneath the Temple. It had been the night after his coronation, when he’d come down to the Selo and gazed into the empty crypt. He’d worried, then, that he might soon lie within it. Now he wept-how naive he had been! He would never lie beside the other Kingpriests now-no, his grave would be plain, nameless, unconsecrated.

He sobbed for a long time, unable to stop himself. When the fit finally ended, his breath hitched in a throat that felt like he’d swallowed razors. “Oh, Paladine,” he sobbed. “How I’ve failed thee…”

“Your god cannot hear you, Kurnos.”

He cried out at the cold voice, close in the darkness. The chill in the cell suddenly grew biting, painful. Robes whispered in the shadows, and he shrank away, whimpering.

“Go away,” he moaned.

“Not yet,” Fistandantilus hissed, so near that Kurnos could feel the wizard’s breath on his ear. “I have something to say to you first. After that, we are finished.”

Kurnos trembled uncontrollably. He didn’t know where to look. The sorcerer’s voice seemed to be everywhere, a part of the blackness. It took him nearly a minute to find his voice.

“Speak, then.”

Fistandantilus smiled. It was too dark to see, and his hood would have hidden his face even if the cell were in full daylight, but Kurnos sensed the cruel grin anyway.

“Very well,” the wizard said. “I want to thank you.”

“What?” Kurnos blurted. “Thank me? Beldyn’s alive. I failed!”

“Yes. I know you did.”

Kurnos stared blindly at nothing, his mouth working silently.

“I wanted Beldyn to live,” the dark wizard hissed, his voice barely more than a breath. He chuckled. “If I truly desired his death, I would have killed him myself.”

“I don’t-I don’t understand.” The world swayed like the deck of a storm-tossed galley.

“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus sneered. “You’re a fool, Kurnos, a Footsoldier upon my own private khas board. You dreamed of ruling this empire, but my designs are greater.

To achieve them, I need a true holy man on the throne. Now, with your help, I have him.

“I saw Brother Beldyn first, you see-years before Lady Ilista, in fact. I searched Ansalon for the man I wanted… and found a boy. I thought to wait until he came into adulthood, but the god called Symeon earlier than I’d hoped, so I had to act.

“I knew there would be discord within the clergy if he simply came here, you see,” the dark wizard went on. “Many would have been reluctant to follow him-he’s young, after all, and from a heretical order. The hierarchy would have fac-tionalized, and another war could have begun. I needed the church united… so I turned to you.”

Kurnos moaned, shrinking beneath the weight of the wizard’s words. Tears streaked his face. “Me?” he breathed.

“You. I fed your yearning for power, gave you the tools to craft your own downfall. If you succumbed to evil in your desire to keep the throne-used demoniac magic-the hierarchs would have to look favorably upon Beldyn. It took more trouble than I expected, perhaps, but in the end you did as I knew you would.

“The empire will follow him now,” Fistandantilus finished, pitiless. “Those who matter have beheld his power and the depths of your depravity. I am done with you.”

Kurnos wanted to scream, to curse, to grab the sorcerer in the darkness, smash his skull against the wall… but he found suddenly that he couldn’t move. His body might have been made of lead, rather than flesh.

“You bastard,” he sobbed. “I’ll kill you… I’ll kill-”

“No, Holiness,” Fistandantilus whispered. “You won’t, but you’ll tell them about me now, won’t you? They probably won’t believe you, but then again, they might. I’m afraid I can’t take that chance. Sathira.”

There was no light in the cell, but after Fistandantilus spoke the name, the shadows grew deeper still, thickening until they were almost solid. A loud rush of unholy wind, more wintry than the chilliest Icereach gale, filled the room. Kurnos felt the last fragile threads of his sanity fray as the demon’s familiar presence took form. He mewled in terror… then his mind finally gave way, and he began to laugh and laugh, an uncontrollable glee that turned to screams as two slits of green appeared in front of his face.

“My old friend,” Sathira growled. “I have longed for this.” Her talons found him, tearing through skin, flesh, bone.

Kurnos shrieked with delight and knew no more.

“Enough,” Fistandantilus said after a while.

Sathira did not heed, continuing to rip ragged strips from the twitching thing on the floor. Blood sprayed the walls. She hissed with delight, devouring Kurnos, digging deep to claw out the choicest bits. Fistandantilus felt neither joy nor disgust at the sight-only annoyance that she did not readily obey him. He raised a hand, snapping his fingers.

“I said enough!”

The demon flinched as a spark of white light struck her, then cowered away from the fleshy ruin, snarling. She watched the wizard with menace in her green eyes. He paid her no mind. He knew spells that could tear her to pieces if he chose, and she knew it.

She had served him well. Twice she could have destroyed the young monk, if she’d chosen, and twice she had let herself appear to be defeated. That had been her end of the bargain they had struck.

“Go now,” he said, making a gesture. “Back to the Abyss and your queen.”

Her eyes flashed, a flare that lit the room for an eyeblink, displaying the scattered bits of wet bone and gristle that covered the floor. With an inward swirl of wind and a sound like distant thunder, Sathira was gone.

Fistandantilus stood alone in the cell, looking down at what had once been the Kingpriest of Istar. He could see very well, despite the lack of light, and he knew he could not leave things like this. If the guards found this dripping mess, there would be questions. Worse, the Lightbringer might come up with answers. That would not do.

Shrugging, he raised his hands, weaving his fingers through the air. Spidery words slipped from his tongue, and the sharp, darkly euphoric rush of magic filled him, an old friend. His only friend. Focusing his will, Fistandantilus spun the power into a spell.

The air in the cell shivered, growing warm. When it stilled, the gory mess the demon had made was gone, and Kurnos lay whole once more, his body unharmed, his eyes closed in peace. Seeing him as he was now, the guards would think he had simply died in his sleep. Not even the new Kingpriest, with all his divine might, would guess the horrible truth.

Fistandantilus nodded, smiling within his hood. “Farewell, Holiness,” he said. In a flickering, he vanished from the cell.

Epilogue

Twelfthmonth, 923 LA.