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Dark Son of Mortis (Chapter 3)
🕑 Added 2023-05-22 14:38:14 +0000 UTCAN: I'm sure you guys remember me saying I wanted to get back to my regular daily update schedule. I can confidently say I'll be able to deliver on that promise from tomorrow onward. Not dropping Piercer of Heaven, so dont worry. But I do want to write this on the side, I get a story in my head now and then and I feel I have to write it, so this will be that...
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In a darkened room, the man called Dagon knelt, praying to an idol with many heads and arms. His knees and palms pressed against the cold, stone floor, producing a rhythmic thumping as he bowed, straightened himself, them bowed again.
The place was a sanctuary of the Old Ways, one of the few remaining after the false Savior’s purge, continuing from centuries past until now.
This worship went on for hours, until the sun hung low in the sky, dyed a red-orange hue.
“Here you are.”
Suddenly, from the space behind Dagon, the same leading to the surface, a voice came. It was male and youthful, the sound pleasant to one’s ears.
Dagon’s breath caught in his throat and he slowly turned his head, ‘looking’ over his shoulder, but there was nothing for him to see.
“…you are here, my Prince. I did not notice you—please forgive me for not offering greetings.”
There was silence in the chamber as Dagon slowly got up, brushing the dust from his hands and knees.
“Why do you worship these things? Or could it be, the Cult kept the details of the prophecy from you?”
The next moment, not more than three feet from Dagon, a person came into existence. In his gray and cloudy vision, their form was hazy and black, but given shape by an outline of crimson.
Dagon lowered his head respectfully.
“As a slave, understanding was not required of me, only service.”
After speaking, his bandaged face observed the Prince carefully.
The Prince made a thoughtful sound.
“Well, there is no need to continue practicing the Old Ways...”
The words had scarcely left his mouth before the many-armed, many-headed statue cracked and shattered, fragments of metal and precious stones scattering across the ground.
“…those things are not gods, but false idols, made by those who came before.”
Dagon could hardly believe the Prince would speak such blasphemous things, but couldn’t reprimand him. Not only was he, as a servant and inferior, unfit to do so, but he’d thought similar things in the past.
“Surely, that can’t be, my Prince! How else could you have come here, except through the power of the gods?”
Confused, Dagon couldn’t help but question the Prince’s claims. His own faith had never been strong, but after serving as the Prince’s custodian for nearly fifteen years, he’d seen many incomprehensible things.
It was to the extent that he resumed the practices he’d been taught, not wanting to draw the wrath of the gods, who’s eyes were surely on them.
“It’s too long and bothersome to explain, so either believe me or not. But, to worship things that were made by hands just like yours is far too pathetic. If you persist, then do not follow me any longer.”
Dagon quietly mulled over what he’d just heard.
“What is the full prophecy then, my Prince?”
The Prince chuckled.
“That the ‘Demon Savior’ would destroy the gods and bring about a new era.”
The shock these words brought Dagon was extremely great.
With trembling lips, he forced himself to speak.
“Then, how can you slay the gods if they are only false idols? I do not understand.”
The Prince’s shadowy form shifted, one arm extending outwards.
Abruptly, the statue’s fragments, littering the ground, were raised into the air, reassembling into a shape Dagon didn’t recognize.
“The ‘old gods’ are war-machines, built by the people of Iokath. Though their builders have long since vanished, their works persist. Your ancestors, who came to this world a long time ago, discovered these machines, starting to worship them.”
Dagon’s stood their stiffly, not knowing how to react. The idea that the old gods weren’t living beings seemed ridiculous. And even if he accepted it as truth, the questions in his mind didn’t decrease, but multiplied.
“Who are you then, my Prince…?”
His voice trailed off toward the end, not able to voice the full extent of his confusion.
The Prince made a thoughtful sound.
“That’s a good question. It wouldn’t be convenient to go without a name…”
Dagon’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. Needless to say, that wasn’t his enquiry, but instead, he wished to know the Prince’s true nature.
“…the name ‘Amon’ would suit me well. While in public, you should address me as such.”
He chuckled to himself, like enjoying a joke only he could understand. Then, ‘Amon’ waved his arm, spontaneously turning the reassembled shape into dust.
“Let’s go. The Emperor’s servants are on their way here—no big surprise, given their insatiable appetite for the blood of cultists.”
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Far above the planet of Zakuul, the peak of a world-spire overlooked everything. It was one of many—mind-boggling feats of engineering, seeming to defy the laws of physics.
At the very top, like the throne of a sky-god, there was a grand, spacious room. Toward the end, opposite the wall-spanning crystal-glass windows, a large bed sat.
A woman laid underneath its white, crumpled sheets. She was attractive, with dark hair and manicured eyebrows, and possessing pretty, symmetrical features.
Shifting around in her sleep, she unconsciously reached for the spot next to her, finding it empty. Her eyebrows creasing, she opened her eyes slowly, a feeling of unease cutting through the haze of sleep.
From years of mental training, rousing herself into wakefulness wasn’t difficult. Within a handful of seconds, she was up and dressing, her expression sharp, without any grogginess.
After wearing her uniform, a sort-of white textile suit with silver-gold trimmings, she took a gleaming, black pistol from a nearby table and holstered it next to her waist.
Now dressed, she walked to the other end of the room before pressing her palm against a green, luminescent scanner.
It opened soundlessly, revealing a long, white hallway.
“Evening, master sergeant Tirall.”
Suddenly, a voice sounded from her right, belonging to a uniformed female officer. The person in question stood at attention next to the chamber-door with her head lowered, a fist pressed against her chest.
“Really, Yessen? I keep telling you, just call me Senya.”
Shaking her head, Senya gave her subordinate an exasperated smile.
However, the petty officer didn’t relax her tension.
“I apologize sergeant, I’ll remember in the future. But, since you’re awake, I’m assuming you’ll want to see his majesty. Not more than an hour ago, the emperor summoned matriarch Galatêa to the observatory—nobody entered or exited since.”
Chewing her lip, Yessen’s eyes showed an anxious look.
Senya’s sighed, unconsciously rubbing her forehead.
“This matter is becoming… troublesome. Perhaps I should stop by, see if there’s anything I can do.”
The petty officer nodded slowly before saluting her superior, like seeing her off on her way to the front lines.
“Don’t die sergeant—the duratonium contractors still need their documentation filed and I’m terrible at paperwork.”
Senya gave an amused snort before her demeanor turned serious.
After bidding farewell to her junior, she turned and walked down the hallway, her heavy boots thumping against the floor.
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In a dark, featureless room, a man stood near a raised platform. In front of him, out of a ball-like object about the size of a fist, a holo-vid projected into the air.
Suddenly, the hologram, which had been a mess of colors and sounds until that point, came into focus. A scene was revealed—of a small crowd of people, their faces clearly visible, standing inside a run-down building.
“…this what you wanted to show me?”
A strange, distorted voice, almost like that of a child, abruptly cut through the din and chatter of those depicted in the holo-vid.
“Yes, my Prince. Over the years, I gathered as many loyalists as I could find. Though these are few in numbers, they surely have their uses.”
The crowd’s faces, standing there silently, showed clear expectation and excitement as they watched a pair of individuals emerge from within the ruin’s shadowed depths.
The first was a tall, lanky creature—humanoid, but strangely covered in bandages from head-to-toe. Some kind of instrument was on its back, a black, ancient-looking thing with many knobs and strings.
Just as it revealed itself, the holo-vid abruptly paused.
“This creature is familiar to you.”
The man, having watched silently until now, turned his head, looking over his shoulder. His tone wasn’t like someone asking a question, but stating a fact.
Behind him, a woman knelt with both knees on the floor, her head hanging low. In the dim lighting, it was hard to distinguish details about her, but the fear and respect in her posture was clear as day.
“Yes, your grace. I recognize that slave—it’s an old thing, serving the Cult of the Old Ways since before my time.”
Matriarch Galatêa wasn’t surprised the emperor noticed her fluctuating emotions. His abilities extended far beyond such trifles, to Bogan sorceries not seen in the Cult’s long history.
Keeping her head down, she waited patiently for a follow up question, but it didn’t come. Instead, the holo-vid resumed playing.
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