“Dsk shuek!” the figure commanded again, pointing down at Grant. He lay in a blood- and sweat-covered heap on the ground, his teary eyes darting around the room, looking for a way to escape. Everything was blurry, but he could gather he’d fallen into a room larger than any he’d seen before.
The hooded men looming over gave each other a knowing look. Grant choked on a panicked sob as they moved closer, shouting more harshly.
“Dsk shuek!”
“Dsk shuek!”
“Dsk shuek!”
What do they want? They hadn’t killed him on sight, which had to mean they didn’t suspect he was an intruder. Was he meant to be a sacrifice? He had no more time on Perfect Invisibility, and he needed to stall.
He opened the Store.
[Would you like to purchase Languages for 20,000 Points?]
He had planned on buying the Skill eventually, but mourned the loss of 20,000 Points. A Root Spell like Vaeri’s was in his grasp, but he reluctantly accepted he had no choice. With a heavy heart, Grant mentally nudged Yes, and knowledge of the Skill flooded him.
“Dsk shuek!”
“Dsk shuek!”
He activated it.
“Rise!”
“Rise!”
Grant clambered to his feet, almost toppling over from the resulting dizzy spell. Half of him wanted to lie back down and sleep, consequences be damned. The other half wanted to kick himself for getting caught, but he’d probably pitch on his face trying.
He stood at attention as best he could, stomach heaving and legs wobbling. He fixed his gaze forward on the farthest wall and balled his hands into fists, digging his thumbnails into his palms to stay conscious. His vision flickered and the world lurched, but he stayed upright, clenching his teeth with effort.
Two men gripped him by the elbows, and the third led the way.
“The ceremony,” they said in unison.
They began dragging him toward a low stone pedestal. Fear rose and Grant weakly struggled against the men’s grip, but he was helpless. He had lost too much blood, he had not slept since the infirmary, poison slithered through his veins, and he had sweat out most of his body’s water in the smothering heat. Their grips held him firm as he hung off their hands like a wet bedsheet.
This is the end. Tears dripped from his numb cheeks and fell to the floor. There was nothing more he could do. He would be dying at the age of 18, on a foreign world, sacrificed to a wyrm named Bay’kol by her cultists. It was a gruesome death at the end of a short, ultimately pointless life. With depressed resignation, he allowed them to take him.
They set him on the pedestal with unexpected gentleness, where he lay flat and limp, trying not to cry. His limp arms were dangling from the sides, his only movement soft shaking with every breath. The three men formed a triangle.
“We sweat for Bay’kol, we bleed for Bay’kol, we suffer for Bay’kol, we die for Bay’kol.”
It was in a separate language whose name Grant did not know, but he understood every word. That somehow made it worse.
“We sweat for Bay’kol, we bleed for Bay’kol, we suffer for Bay’kol, we die for Bay’kol.”
Panic clutched at Grant, strangling him. He Resummoned his dagger, but couldn’t feel his fingers. It clattered to the floor, and he Dismissed it before they noticed.
The bites on his arms itched and burned, and something shifted and bulged under his skin. Must be the final stage of the toxin. He bit his tongue so hard that he tasted blood.
A wave of red light fell over Grant.
“We sweat for Bay’kol, we bleed for Bay’kol, we suffer for Bay’kol, we die for Bay’kol.”
He squeezed his eyes closed and waited for the knife, mace, or whatever else it was going to be, praying it wouldn’t be painful. His breath slowed. Death was an inevitable fact of life, even more so for a Campaigner. He settled on the last thing he wanted to see before meeting the Goddess.
His friends’ faces. It seemed a good enough choice.
“We rise for Bay’kol!”
[You have been Cured of Toxin of Bay’kol!]
The pain disappeared.
[You have been Enhanced by Mark of Bay’kol.]
[Resistances to Poison and Disease have been increased from 12/100 to 62/100.]
[You have been Cursed by Mark of Bay’kol.]
Grant spluttered out a long-held breath and opened an eye. The three men stared down at him with the detached scrutiny of a surgeon dissecting a cadaver.
“You have passed the Trial of Bay’kol,” said the one nearest his head. There was no fanfare to the statement, no indication that it’d been meant as praise. The man said it as an unremarkable fact, as though he were stating the time. Grant’s eyes flicked to his face, and he scowled down, sucking in his hollow cheeks.
The Trial of Bay’kol? Grant thought, still reeling. Sensation rushed back to his arms and legs as the toxin relented.
“Her grand-grand-offspring have fed on your blood, her essence has flowed through your veins. This makes you a proud apprentice of the Forces of Bay’kol. From today forward, you will not utter a word for one year.”
The three cultists stared, silent and attentive. The wind made a faint howling sound as it blew over the cavern’s holes. Sweat pooled under his back on the hot stone slab. Grant peered up toward the direction from which he came, at the tunnel from which he had fallen. It was a plain black blemish on the scarred stone wall, just like any other in the fortress.
A trial, which involved being bitten by countless snakes.
Which he had apparently passed.
One of the cultists cleared his throat. The top half of his face was hidden by his hood, the bottom half twisted with no attempt to hide his contempt.
“Come.”
With a breathy grunt, Grant struggled to still unsteady feet, checking his Status screen for information about the Mark of Bay’kol. It was labeled a Curse in his Debuffs besides being a Poison and Disease Resistance Buff. As far as he could tell, it had no real downside despite being listed as a Debuff.
The man strode forward, clearly expecting to be followed, as the other two returned to their positions in front of the hole, waiting for others.
Grant hurried forward and took a furtive glance at his face. He was a slight man, no taller than Erlan, but gaunt and sickly pale. His head and eyebrows were shaved completely bald, although that seemed to be an entirely personal choice, not a requirement of the cult. He kept his chin lifted high, pushing the bulge in his wiry throat out to a sharp knob.
The man glared at Grant, harshly pointing back. “You do not walk at my side. You walk one pace behind.” Grant took a large stride back as the man’s thin, white face followed him, nostrils flared in outrage. “The insolence. It appears that the instructors have become soft,” he spat, directing his finger to the spot between Grant's eyes. “I am of the opinion that beatings are the best deterrent poor behavior, and that those who find this to be untrue have simply not tried hard enough.”
Grant only studied the rocky wall. Mr. Fletcher would fit right in here.
The cultist scoffed, then stomped forward. He varied his pace, as though he were testing Grant’s ability to keep the right distance through long, hurried strides interrupted by abrupt stops. With an Agility Attribute of 31, Grant could have done it with his eyes closed, but he played along, stumbling every so often.
“I am Brother Netherbrow,” he said, in a tone that threatened penalty if Grant ever forgot. “You will earn your own name in time, unlike the two with whom you underwent your trial. Their lives were useless, but their bodies will be of marginally more value, providing sustenance for Her grand offspring.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Grant shuddered at the thought of being bitten to death by small snakes, liters of their venom being pumped into his body, and then having his lifeless corpse dumped into a pit of larger snakes. If he hadn’t been able to activate Perfect Invisibility for the final pit, he imagined he would have been wyrm food too.
As heartless as it made him feel, he hoped those behind him were dead. Being bitten to death by small wyrms and eaten by larger wyrms was bad enough. Being bitten most of the way to death, then eaten the rest of the way was much worse.
Brother Netherbrow led from the chamber and up a steeper slope, leading him up the path to wherever they took new initiates. Over time, he came to realize the tunnels were arranged almost like a city’s streets; the wider ones with high ceilings were main roads, and the smaller ones were side streets. Those he would have to crawl through were their version of alleys, he deduced, although after his recent experience, he would be keeping clear of them.
As sensation returned to his hands, he briefly considered Resummoning Siphoning Fang and getting rid of Brother Netherbrow, but the tunnels were crowded, and he’d have no place to hide the body after. Many other cultists passed them with a wide berth, bustling from one task to the next. As they dug deeper into the heart of the fortress, he found some of them in clothing not unlike those he had received in Estreia, chins tucked into their chests. He assumed that since his had not been called into question, prospective apprentices of the Cult did not receive their robes until they passed the trial. It seemed to be a final step following a long line of other tasks that Grant had apparently skipped. He kept his nose down and followed.
After twenty minutes of walking in silence, they arrived in a deep, narrow stone room. Hard empty beds with no blankets or pillows were mounted to rock walls, a wooden chest rested at the foot of each one. Brother Netherbrow’s sharp face looked Grant up and down once, and he selected a pair of black robes from a wardrobe. “You will change,” he said, “and then you will begin your chores. The kitchen always needs help, so begin there.”
Grant felt a rush of discomfort as the man stood watching. He took off his blood-stained clothes, wincing as he had to peel the dried spots from his bite wounds, then pulled the cultist robes over his head, letting them drop to his feet. They only went to the tops of his ankles, so perhaps Brother Netherbrow had given him the wrong size out of spite. The cultist scowled at him once more and strode away, to go about whatever business a cultist may have.
When he left the room, Grant sat on his bed, shaking his head. “Kitchens first, then. They’ll probably have me peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots. And then Queen Bay’kol’s bath, I imagine, after which I’ll also trim her nails.” He scratched his head. “Do wyrms have nails? Probably not. Right. Anyway, I will be doing none of that.”
Another examination of his Status showed the Mark of Bay’kol remained in his Debuffs. He wasn’t sure of what it did, other than giving him higher resistance to Poisons and Diseases. It had no time limit, and didn’t seem to affect his physical or mental condition.
Yet, at least.
He gathered his old pants and tunic from the floor and put them back on, slipping his black robes over them. They looked like he’d been dragged through a field of thorn bushes, but there was no telling when he would have to flee the fortress, and it didn’t seem likely the Airet would be welcoming to a man wearing the clothes of a cultist.
With a deep breath, Grant stepped forward, turning the corner in the opposite direction from where he came, lowered his head, and entered the hallway. The room was doorless. He would have hidden until Perfect Invisibility reset, but there was no place to hide in there, and he could not explain himself to any cultist who demanded why he was not at work.
Especially not with his oath of silence.
He walked with purpose, beginning the tedious process of mapping out the caverns. At first, a surge of panic rose whenever another cultist passed him by. Everywhere he looked were severe-looking men and women staring straight ahead. He kept his hand by his side, flexing and unflexing his fingers, ready to Resummon Siphoning Fang in an instant, keeping an eye out for any spot he might be able to hide a body—or himself—if it came to it.
He found several spots where he might be able to tuck himself away, keeping their location in mind, but being found huddling in a corner would lead to questions he could not answer, especially with his oath of silence. Yet every cultist he came across left him alone. From the unrobed initiates to the shaved men and women like Brother Netherbrow, they looked entirely uninterested in him, never stopped to demand he tell them where he was going, never even gave him a second look.
Their robes had small differences in their designs. Some had embroidered collars or sleeves, while others had emblems above the breast. His were entirely plain. He assumed they distinguished the cultists’ ranks, and his meant he was the lowest who had passed the trial.
His jaw gradually relaxed and hands unclenched when he was not stopped, questioned, or demanded to identify himself a single time. He kept his head down and feigned haste, as though he had been sent to complete an urgent task by a leader. The complex was so huge that he could live there for months and not see Brother Netherbrow’s face a single time.
One of the first things he noticed in his exploration of the area was every tunnel was almost unnoticeably sloped. It was disguised well by the rocky terrain, but after following one of the main roads long enough, he learned it never ended; it just curved and ascended like a very long, very gentle spiral stairway.
Every few hundred yards, rickety ladders led to ominous upper and lower chambers masked in darkness. Since he had not seen a single cultist use one, he assumed that they must be reserved for emergencies or were off-limits for apprentices. When his Perfect Invisibility reset tomorrow, he would see where they led.
If he was still alive, at least.
Conversation was sparse, and on the rare occasion that they did speak, it was about strictly Cult-related matters. There was no gossip, no small talk, and no chatter. There was no sign of any friendships or even friendly relationships. Higher-ranking members barked orders, lower-ranking members scurried away to follow them.
And there was not a single sign of the Cursed. It was as if they had been absorbed by the brown rock walls and disappeared without a trace. Nobody spoke a word about them, and he couldn’t exactly spark up a conversation with a local to find out more.
Hours passed as he took every major route he could find. The stronghold was by all rights a fully functioning city. It had a granary, although Grant couldn’t help but wonder where the actual grain came from. He found an armorer’s workshop, kitchens, baths, and dozens of barracks. He felt disoriented as the tunnels twisted and turned, and many times learned an hour of what he thought was productive exploration had been nothing more than a trip in a giant circle. He lost all sense of direction from where he had come, and constantly had to make mental notes of landmarks to prevent backtracking.
It took many wrong turns and dead ends, but he was eventually able to find his way around the area surrounding his barracks with some consistency.
Branching off from a major road was the mess hall. Grant noticed other cultists filing in and taking seats. He tried to slip away.
“Initiate,” hissed a voice. Grant froze and turned, heart thumping in his throat. For a moment, he almost replied before remembering his oath. He stood up straight instead, staring at the rocky wall.
A woman stomped forward. Like Brother Netherbrow, she was entirely bald, with shaved eyebrows. But Grant’s attention was drawn to the thing next to her.
It looked like a giant snake, like one of the smaller ones that had bitten him hours ago, except it was dark brown and the size of a large dog. Grant tried not to stare as bile rose in his throat. The creature eyed him curiously, sniffing the air, and the woman pointed into the hall.
“You hold the Mark. It is new. Enter.”
He swallowed, then did as she said, striding inside. He took a seat at the far end.
Just fit in. Just stay quiet. If they doubted you, you would be dead already.
A servant in beige pants and a tunic brought him a plate of a protein, vegetables, and a loaf of bread. Grant worked his mouth, waiting, trying to push down the vomit rising in his throat.
Without a word, they lifted their cutlery and began eating in perfect silence, movements nearly synchronized down to their chewing. Not wanting to stand out, Grant ate too, mimicking the actions of the woman across. In terms of taste, the food was bland, but it was plentiful. The only item he could not recognize was a mystery meat, and as he ate it, Grant decided he actually did not want to know what it was.
Another bell rang, making him jump. Another attack?
Everyone immediately stood and turned toward the door, filing out in neat rows, abandoning their meals. Grant’s ankles ached from his hours of exploration, but seeing no other option, he fell in with the others, matching their pace.
The cultists marched in neat lines through the tunnels. Other groups merged into his, and his merged into others. Grant’s stomach lurched and spit pooled in his mouth, but he plodded forward. Where are we going? He groped for a way out, panic stabbing and eyes flickering left and right, but there were too many bodies.
Hope flickered. The Cursed prisoners? Are we going to a sacrifice? He never thought he’d be excited about the prospect of watching 48 Human sacrifices, but if they died, he could sneak out the moment Perfect Invisibility reset and never return to this place. He wondered if the Curse would spread throughout the Cult once the prisoners died, then decided he didn’t care.
The caravan wound through the maze before arriving in an enormous domed cavern, where hundreds of cultists already sat on their knees on black carpets, palms on their thighs and staring forward. Grant took a deep breath at the scale of the hall—not as large as the Shrine of the Goddess in Athemore, but a colossal room. A painting of a deep red wyrm decorated the walls, coiling around the room multiple times. The center was dominated by a large basin, from which smoke from sticks of incense wafted, floating throughout the room.
But no prisoners.
Cultists continued filling every spot on the carpets until their shoulders pressed together uncomfortably. Grant grew anxious with the lack of personal space, but nobody else seemed to notice or care.
At the sound of a second bell, the cultists started a chant, if it could even be called one. Despite Grant’s Languages Skill, he could not pick out a single word. It was more of an extended hum-like wail that rose and sank in volume and pitch. It drifted over the cultists, who entered a trance-like state. Grant suspected their heavy eyelids and looseness was at least partially on account of the incense, which dulled his senses and slowed his thinking.
There was no sermon. No leader stood to speak, lecture, or give instructions. Just endless chanting and stale smoke. It smelled like a smokehouse in Iori, and Grant’s fingers and toes began to tingle. He could feel it gnawing at his mind, muddling his thoughts, pressing down on him.
After what must have been an hour, the cultists abruptly stopped, stood, and filed out. They marched in neat lines like before, and Grant fell in with them again. Their boots thudded in unison, beating on the stone floor like thousands of drums.
Revulsion rose in his throat. Every act was one of obedience, every step timed to the surrounding ones. These were real people—people who may have once had real families, real dreams, and real passions. Now they were hollow husks of meat, completing endless chores until they were rewarded with a session of humming in a stale church for their Queen.
They began to turn off into other tunnels. They shuffled into rooms with beds exactly like Grant’s, lay on them, and closed their eyes, lined up like fish on display in a crate. Not a single word was uttered, not so much as a throat cleared or a cough exhaled. He idly wondered how they would react if someone sneezed.
He did as they did. Would hardly blame himself for the hypocrisy, too. He stretched out on the hard mattress-less slate of stone and clenched his eyes, trying to force his breath quiet, resisting every urge to get up and run back to Estreia. His feet hung over the edge uncomfortably. The bed was cold, but the air was still thick and heavy. I need to work faster. I need to do more tomorrow.
In spite of his discomfort and unease, Grant could not keep his eyes open. He fell asleep in seconds.
