Chapter 18 #2
“Do you know what this place is?” He finally asks when he’s done basking in my confusion, still smirking.
“A temple? To Zeus?” It’s in the name.
“Very good, but it is so much more than that.” Murbank points to one of the room’s walls. “The murals that line the temple, have you ever read them?”
I look at one of the murals he’s pointing at, confused. “...No?”
“They tell the legends of Olympian heroes and demigods.” He begins walking around the room, pointing at different murals as he speaks.
“Perseus, Atalanta, Caeneus, Penthesilea... all mortals, all granted unbelievable strength by the gods. Gods the ancient elves communed with using this very temple.”
I think I’ve heard the name Perseus before, but the rest are a mystery. As is his plan—what the hell does this have to do with staying on the council?! “...Okay? So what? You’re gonna start praying and…what, ask them to make you a councilman again?”
“Hardly,” Murbank replies after snorting, walking toward the raised platform at the room’s center. “Do you know what this altar was originally used for? The magic that is contained within?”
“No...” I know I’m not smart, but he’s acting like I’m missing something obvious. He also really likes hearing himself talk. “I thought it didn’t do anything.”
“Of course, that is what the official report was made to say. Both the city and the elves did not want to risk the public learning its true purpose, lest someone try to use it for themselves.” Murbank walks around the altar, staring at the lead box at its center.
“You see, this altar is a conduit to the astral plane. The ancient elves used this to commune with the gods and receive their blessings.”
“Fairytales and rumors?!” Glasha growls out to the entire room. “You have all elected to commit treason over fairytales and rumors?!”
“They are so much more than rumors, Ranger Silentfang.” Murbank shakes his head in her direction.
“It was my father who pushed for the temple to be investigated. After he learned of its true power, he became obsessed with it. It was not until he shared the information with me and started the Order that we were finally able to discover how to utilize the altar’s power for ourselves.
” He pauses, staring at me like he’s waiting for me to ask for more.
“How did you do that?” I can’t help but roll my eyes as I ask.
“Do you know what Olympian altars are traditionally used for?” He pauses, putting both hands on the pedestal.
I shake my head. I’m really starting to get annoyed with all the questions he knows I don’t have the answer to.
“Sacrifice.” He grins creepily.
The word sits in my head for a minute before my eyes go wide at the implication. “Oh my god, you started a cult.”
“Cult is such an ugly word.” He feigns being wounded. “I am only doing what the gods intended, what the temple was built for. They left us all the necessary tools.”
He pauses, bending over to pick up something that was leaning against the back of the altar: a sword still in its scabbard.
The leather making it up is rough and tattered—it looks ancient.
The grey metal of the handle shines brightly in the light of the room, despite being wrapped in the same old-looking leather.
The sword. That must be what they stole from the vault.
“What are you going to do with that?” I don’t know why I ask; I already know.
“Finish what I started with my father twenty years ago.” He pulls the sword from the scabbard slowly, leaning the leather case against the altar again when he’s finished.
It’s a one-hander, but it’s still pretty large, bigger than any sword I’ve wielded.
The blade is wide, curving at one end almost like a scimitar.
The metal shines brightly in the light of the room.
“This sword is enchanted with many spells of its own, but one in particular works to activate the conduit in the altar. It only requires the proper catalyst—blood.”
“Technically, it requires a life,” Redwish corrects Murbank. “One that is sacrificed through bloodletting.”
“So why Ragnar and Nylan?” The way they’re talking about this like it’s nothing is fucking creepy. “Why wait twenty fucking years to do this?!”
“It is simple my boy: elf magic requires elf blood,” he answers casually.
“My father and I attempted to prove that twenty years ago. It was simple enough to manipulate Warhunter into starting his pathetic little rebellion, which gave us the cover we needed to begin our real work. It took weeks to uncover how the altar worked and move everything into place, but we did it. Then that bitch of an elf decided she would rather sacrifice herself than be a part of something great and destroyed everything we worked for. The order lost so many brothers and sisters that day. My father was ready to give up, but I knew I just needed to be patient and the opportunity would present itself once again.”
“I’m sorry, attempted to prove?” I ask, my mind still stuck on one of the first things he said. “You don’t even know that this is going to work?!”
“We have tested it with human and orc blood.” He shrugs. “I told father not to bother. It obviously needed to be an elf, but he still insisted on trying. We had to wait for the right moment to—”
“Actually, Councilman, I myself have been wondering why you have been so insistent that we use this elf in particular.” Redwish steps toward the older orc, sounding skeptical. “There are dozens of elves in the area. We could have had this finished months ago. Years even.”
“Where is the poetry in that?” Murbank lays the sword back against the altar. “Twenty years ago, that elf destroyed my father’s work! She sacrificed herself to wipe out our movement, and tonight I will sacrifice her son to restore it.”
“Poetry?” Redwish’s voice goes icy. “You are telling me that I have been stuck in this backwater hellhole for over a year now because of your obsession with damned poetry?!”
“I think you may want to watch your tone, Brother Redwish. I would like to remind you that we had been prepared for this two months ago before someone facilitated and encouraged the city’s ranger captain to agree to a public battle on top of the vault we were to break into later that night!
” Murbank is almost shouting now. “I had the plans in place to retrieve the sword for months, and you ruined them in a matter of hours! Luckily, I always have a backup plan, even if it did require far more force than I would have cared to use.”
“You are right—the fact that after eight months you still did not possess one of the most important components for your plan should have been more than enough to indicate to that you have no idea what you are doing!” Redwish starts shouting himself.
“And I would like to remind you that the only reason this little shit and his friends were able to enter the temple to begin with is because your cult left the entrance wide open for them to find in the first place!”
He points over at the “little shit,” who is me.
That does explain why we were able to find the place and get inside so easily.
This is perfect though, exactly what I was hoping for.
The longer I can get them to argue with each other, the more time I have to think of a plan. Which so far isn’t going so well.
“Who do you think you are to speak to me this way?” Murbank growls, stepping into Redwish’s space.
“Well, I do not know what else to call bunch of fanatical zealots tattooing bird claws all over their bodies!” They’re standing so close they’re almost touching. “Have you been trying to get us found out, or are you—”
Redwish stops speaking, turning his head toward the tunnel entrance. Several orcs, including Murbank copy him, and a second later, I hear it myself—horse hooves coming our way. Dammit. My stomach is in my chest as I struggle to turn to see if the rangers came back empty handed or not.
“Wonderful.” Redwish breathes a sigh of relief, and my heart sinks. “Now, could we please get started?”
To my left, I watch a dark horse led by Deputy Captain Keenguard come into view, a bound Nylan thrown over the saddle on his stomach, hands behind his back.
Keenguard pulls him off and forces him to stand, the horse dissipating into a puff of smoke with a hiss.
There’s a similar noise behind me, and then Ragnar is forced to his knees on my left next to Glasha.
“Let go of him!” Ragnar struggles in Firedrum’s grasp.
He looks bad, covered in small cuts, his eye swollen and his lip split and bleeding.
He and Nylan are only half dressed, so I can assume they were probably caught by surprise.
I hear the distant rumble of thunder, and I curse the rain for not starting sooner. I feel awful. This is my fault.
“Sir.” Keenguard pushes Nylan toward Murbank. “We caught them not far from the springs. It seems they were heading back to the campsite but became...distracted.”
“I suppose we should be thankful for that.” Nylan looks terrified as Murbank inspects him.
“I said LET HIM GO!” Ragnar roars and breaks out of Firedrum’s hold, only to be tackled to the floor a moment later.
“Get him under control, Captain.” Murbank directs the order at Keenguard, apparently having already decided on Khazak’s replacement.
Keenguard helps Firedrum wrestle Ragnar to the ground, giving him a few well-placed punches to subdue him.
“Stop it! Please!” Nylan cries out. “What do you want from us? I told you, our families don’t have any money.”
“What you are here for is so much more important than material possessions,” says the very rich man who uses debt to blackmail people. “No, my boy. You are here to finish what was started twenty years ago as your mother was meant to do before you.”
“What are you talking about?” He sounds as confused as he does scared. “I’m not... I can’t use magic like she did. I don’t know about any of that stuff, I swear.”