Mortis is Another Word for Death
© 1997 Arref Mak

Night had fallen gently.

He sensed the moment to begin his work was at hand. Somewhere within, he initiated with a practiced thought the slow ascent of the special energies granted by his Lord. His Lord's divine gifts had been earned thru years of missions and service. While some of those gifts were potent in achieving more missions, the changes he held most special were the ones that he felt placed him a step closer to a divine focus. He examined the surrounding palace grounds. Nameless men were going about their tasks with weary dispatch. He sent a prayer skyward in the direction of the Star of His Lord. He had replaced the guard who's regalia he wore over three hours ago. And with just this level of darkness, his waiting was over. Now was time for the climb to his goal.

He relaxed from the stiff posture of a professional soldier. He stepped closer to the nearest silhouette of garden hedges and put the stolen pike down at the shadowed base of the greenery. The metal helmet followed. Then the ornamented breastplate joined them on the ground. In a minute he was free of all the trappings of a Royal Guardsman. He already knew exactly the order and times of the guard movements from his wait. No watch sergeant would pass this way soon. And his job would be over quickly enough.

Such a glorious night. A truely blessed opportunity for he and his bretheren far away. He was here in Mortis for reasons of his Lord's work, never expecting tonight's goal. The work that had brought him to the capital was two days done now. The assignment had gone quickly and well. Another name struck from the Red Prayer Rolls of the Servants of Sthenno. Afterwards, his time inside an inn of Tanners Row had unexpectedly offered a holy mission of greater meaning to him. The quiet words of an inebriated merchant who had seen a particular woman debark the cutter at the docks. While the merchant was not old enough to recognize the woman, he could relate the words of a vocal old sailor. The eldster offered the merchant unasked advice upon overhearing the tradesman's idle comment on the bedroom potential of the strangely dressed redhead leaving the dock area on foot. Six and twenty hours ago, in hearing the sailor's salty twice told words from the merchant's lips, it was clear that none other than the Witch of Endor was unexpectedly here to confer with the King of Mortis. This fortunate stroke of his Lord's Hand had positioned him, his Servant, to be the instrument of her overdue encounter with divine justice. It would be so. Ordinarily, by the time the temple scribes had learned of her visit to Mortis, she would have fled back to her stronghold in the remote lands of Ersia. Ordinarily, she could be safe because her movements could not be anticipated.

He slipped back to the wall. With small sounds that hardly registered on his own ears, he began to ascend the wall. He used no crafted tools. As he worked his way past the huge base stones of the palace, he took more care to fit his fingers exactly where they might distribute his weight. The physical exertion was familiar and purposeful. The rhythm of each hand, foot, then other hand, other foot was taken into his growing sense of focus narrowing to tonight's work. He slipped past a cornice carving.

As sometimes accompanied his best work, he now drew upon a special clarity and fit the details of his evening's mission into an ordered whole. Not just for the holy scribes later. No, more than that. Reporting his actions to the temple was routine.

He noted a belting course of wardstones go by slowly as he continued up. He wanted this night's work to be special. It would honor his dead bretheren, he thought piously. While most of the world believed the Seven Servants were deathless and unstoppable, he knew that occasionally a Servant perished instead of the listed heretic.

He slid a yard to the side of a rainwater spout and moved upward again. Bhangbadea, Witch of Endor, had been on the Red Prayer Roll for as long as he had been a Servant of Sthenno. That was over six years. He worked higher over yet smaller stone with tightly fitted spaces now.

His thoughts flicked back to his youth, in the distant mountain valley where he was born, all witches were found and killed when they were still children. Long years ago, a clear memory, still a back country native, he had been surprised when he saw a 'Witch of Endor' on the Prayer Roll of the Servants. At first, his attention was because of the novelty of an adult witch. He had, naturally, asked for particulars of this witch enemy of the church. That she was a heretic was obvious, but earning a place on the Red Prayer Rolls was very special. His focus was strong enough now, that under his hands, an easy section of wall with many carved details went by quickly. His thoughts continued to move cleanly on, weaving in and about the dry facts he associated with this Witch. While he had no reason to know the details, he knew exactly how many of the Holy Seven Servants had not returned from the task of ending this Witch's life. Three of his six bretheren were inducted to restore the ranks of the Seven. Tonight, his Lord was taking a blessed interest in ending her extended frustration of justice. Shortly, he would have advantage of position and surprise. It was the nature of the hunt for those beings dangerous and damned enough to be on the Red Rolls, that a target's location was difficult to know, and needed to be known by the temple in order to direct its Servants. Or an expected location. And never the residence or stronghold of the defiler. No, the Holy Servants were not sent out on fruitless tasks. They were too well guided to fight the damned on their own advantaged ground.

This woman had proven very difficult to find outside her stronghold in the blasted badlands of Ersia.

Now, obviously by the workings of his Lord, she had come unannounced and unexpected to Mortis. She had not been to this land for years. She had not been a part of the Court here for longer than that. Tonight she was inside one of the most spell warded and physically fortified palaces in the known world. But, like all the Seven, he had studied these palaces with particular interest. The wisdom of the Temple was put to the task of gaining entrance to these great monuments to mortal cunning and wizardly power. He knew his powers would see him inside. This drama he enacted now had been practiced more times than he could recall. And under more forbidding circumstances than this. There was a truth learned in his years of faith and study. The powerful were vulnerable when protected by magics not their own. Or walls not of their own making. And moreso to the degree of protection provided to them. So she would be shocked when the wire of his shin-tres spun around her throat from out of nowhere and she lost her voice and thence her head. No words of power would be spoken. No time to cast spells. Only justice for her murders. Death.

He moved ever upward. Much closer now.

While the holiest mission of the Seven Servants was to end the lives of the enemies of his Lord God Sthenno, other issues could intervene. The Servants were so effective, many worldly matters were entrusted to them. Special messages to be carried. Or the protected escort of a senior churchman. He thanked his Lord again that he had never been sent on the uncouth tasks where an enemy was to be crippled and left alive. That work was not to his taste. He thought it a terrible and demeaning duty and was glad it was usually performed by the youngest of the bretheren. He might understand the lesson the living victim could teach the unfaithful, but he privately held that those sort of missions should not even be on the Red Rolls. Instead, let the testament of three centuries of death delivered by the Faithful Seven speak of the power, faith and will of his Lord.

Well. In any case, he knew it was a small thing beyond his concern. While he was not the eldest, he had not been the youngest of the Seven for some time. No longer the back country devotee with little sense of larger issues. He was worldly wise enough to see that abuses to any system, even a divine inspired one, were inevitable.

Seventy feet above the ground he laid his hand on the sill of her room and hung for a moment to listen. The breeze against the palace was light. Although only dressed in a black loincloth, he felt no chill or discomfort. His holy focus was very strong now. So little sound was about the darkened city, that the faint breeze was audible to him.

Suddenly, he could actually hear her speaking. He experienced a small moment of wonder for her voice was common, but ageless. It did not caress as the false tones of spell enchanted youth. Neither did it lurch about in the night air as to indicate her true age. My Lord, he realized with a start, from the sound's clarity, she must be near the window itself.

No.

Even better as he peered upward, two windows of the lead frame were open a few inches each. A minor error of overconfidence that would make his approach easier. He exulted. But he must not let her error lead to his own. He brought his breath in slowly now isolating his holy focus as he had a thousand thousand times. His inner strength steadied again with this deliberate exercise. He hung almost motionless and nearly within the circle of his enemy's imagined protection. Everything seemed to be easing and flowing with him now, guiding him to this confrontation with his enemy tonight. Combined with his special knowledge and preparations, this small error, this window ajar, would insure there would be no chance that the palace spellwards would detect him entering her chamber. He knew he had a gift of time now that he had not expected to have. Strategy to capitalize on this turn of fate quickly formed in his mind. He would wait for the best moment and add the advantage of timing to those of position and surprise

Oh, he knew better than most, that sorcerer's were never helpless once asleep. Past missions had forced him to kill two sorcerers in their sleep and the second occasion had been a near thing for him. No. Anytime a sorcerer could anticipate being helpless or in danger, they were very well prepared. His move should be soon. Before the Witch retired to her rest. He would wait only until he could hear that her rhythms were slowing. The precursor to her thoughts of bed and rest would be his signal to act.

Just to make sure he, himself, did not overlook the small details, he exchanged hands then and hung by his left grip for the wait. Even anticipating the stamina of his finger muscles was not beneath the notice of his heightened awareness. Quiet nightime minutes passed. His own special perceptions told him the moment was closer. By the clear mix of sounds in the room, the witch had settled herself on the far side of the chamber at some task. He judged the distance from the window inside to be five strides across. He closed his eyes and absorbed the minutia of information he slowly gained about the room he would not enter until she was most vunerable. He waited. Listening. He noted the sound of her clothes rustling to the cycle of her movements had changed to a pattern of complete relaxation. This was the moment. With conscious mantra, he released the full effect of his inner holy light and felt his vitality immediately double as a consequence.

"What 'r you doing?" the question was put to him from just above his fingers on the sill.

His reflexes were no less than explosive and efficient. His favorite weapon hand unencumbered, he struck upward with it before he could draw breath to curse discovery. Unknowing of his target's exact nature or position, still his fingers struck uncannily into the neck, just under the jawline, and closed like a small dragon's jaws.

He had thought he might seize a servant or even the Witch herself leaning out of the window, but the weight and texture trapped in his fingers told him something else, and the knowledge softly escaped his lips in surprise, "Cat?!"

With no other sound or wasted motion, he whipped his arm out and down and smoothly threw the animal into a fall. Not a hiss escaped the black thing. The action was completed before he registered the image of the wild gyrations of the cat's legs as it passed his face at arm's length. Then the small thud in the court below reached him. He breathed out. Done.

Lord of his own soul, the thing must have come from the room out onto the sill for air. The heat of his blood burned in his face as he realized that his Lord was indeed watching over him tonight. Blessed motivations. He had released the holy light within exactly in time to save himself from discovery. The Witch's familiar. It must have been. He recalled the temple observations on the Witch included a cat. If it had sounded an alarm instead of indulging an alien curiousity he might have been undone. But he knew familiars were fragile creatures. While no real physical threat, this one would have been a good sentry if it had possessed better judgment. He stared at his Lord's Star for a completely quiet moment. Death was always close. A great personal advantage was that he worked with Death always. Knew it. Used it. He knew the heat in his face at this moment was human shame and fear. He had been careless. He had been surprised. He had nearly given away the mission. And because of the thrice damned familiar, he could not attack now. Not at this moment. She could be ready. She could have a mystic tie to the thing he had killed. And he had made a noise. Spoken. He shuddered slightly with reaction. Temple wisdom........ 'a Servant never struck when the enemy was prepared or strong'.

He waited for his Lord's judgment.

Minutes. He listened.

He heard a page turn. Long minutes more. Another page turned. His faith grew stronger. He searched for and found the inner focus again. The holy inner light had been spent, of course, but it was still present. Descending in strength, but still there. He concentrated and willed it stronger. No. Well, it was still descending. But he believed now that the situation was better, more ideal than he could have wished with all the powers of his faith.

She must be maintaining her spells. She didn't know what had happened for she was turned within her own mind.

Each magician used many methods, most closely guarded, to keep a working arsenal of magic at hand. But swords needed to be sharpened after each use. Mail needed to be oiled regularly. And spells needed to be studied, polished, and kept strong.

Everything was still in place. The mission was preserved. The Witch of Endor was truly his. It only remained for him to carefully enter the room and dispatch her. He mustered the remains of his holy inner light. His focus would still aid him. Her focus would kill her. How appropriate for this symmetry to be the shape of his mission. His hand slipped into his loincloth and the shin-tres handle eased home into his fingers.

"Hy am not a bloody cat, ratcatcher!" Four razors of pain seared thru the top of his fingers on the sill. The tremendous force contained in his hand's muscle and tendons exploded outward in hot blood and snapping force.

Shock. Clarity. The cat?

How many moments? His gazed locked skyward. His ruined hand failed him and he slipped from the sill and into the night air.

Details so sharp.

His heart racing.

The cat! Covered in courtyard dust. One amber eye caked with dirt or blood.

The cat alive?

Turning.

Must stay near the wall.

Other hand.

Leave weapon in loincloth.

Reaching.

The wall a violent blur.

The cat!

Was that his Lord's Star in the spinning sky?

Too late.