“Surrounded by darkness, we will be the light. Beset by shadows, we will be the fire. Against the oncoming evil, we will stand tall.” – Mantra of the Imperial Inquisitorial Order of Purity
I. The Arbiter
Nathaniel Hessinger
17th of Sun’s Glory, Year 1978 of the Third Era
Mauciron’s Square of Mercy was massive – half a thousand metres long and another half thousand wide – though almost totally empty. Aside from perhaps two or three dozen devotees, the plaza was deathly still and even more deathly quiet. Arrayed against the silence, the thundering clamour of the city hung brazenly over the pious.
Hessinger knew the Square had once been famed across all the Empire, maybe even all Talliask. There was a time when pilgrims would flock to the hallowed site in their thousands everyday. Now, the Square was lucky if it drew a hundred.
In the middle of the plaza stood a great marble statue of a praying woman, eyes looking up to the heavens. Most of the pilgrims gathered around its base, murmuring beatitudes. It was said that Ascended Lyrallah had perished in that very spot, starving herself to death in protest of the city’s ungodly ways. After fifty days and fifty nights she had finally breathed her last, and the townspeople, consumed by guilt, had built this statue to commemorate her. The old stories declared that she could heal the sick and the maimed with a touch, and that some of her healing power remained in that spot, waiting to be received by the faithful.
Hessinger wasn’t so sure. He’d visited the statue the day before, but it was as ordinary as any other he’d seen. The Arbiter had no reason to doubt the Ascended’s miracles; but this statue was common marble, and had no healing touch.
Suddenly, a gloved hand scuffed the Arbiter over the ear, pulling him from his thoughts. Hessinger turned irritatedly to his companions, rubbing the side of his head. “Bastards”, he muttered, his brow furrowed. “You could have just called me.”
Sellan the Sharp laughed. He was a young man, like Hessinger, though his skin was dark, his nose wide and his short fuzzy hair as black as pitch. “You were daydreaming again, Varrfolker. You are a man of the Inquisition, not some fool-boy. Your wits must always be about you, isn’t that right Kallra?”
Kallra only nodded. He was everything Sellan was not: pale, hawk-faced and white haired. While Sellan talked often and loudly, Kallra hardly spoke at all.
Hessinger’s mouth thinned, but made no reply. There was nothing to be said. Hand resting on his sword hilt, he followed his brothers into the heart of the city. Down alleys they strode, across streets and through open buildings too, their dusty floors matted with garish rugs. Road after road they passed, some dishevelled, some wealthy. A few were beautifully cobbled, the stones baking in the sun, while others had only sand and stones underfoot.The roads were all different, though every street was bursting with frenzy and action. Everywhere you looked was a riot of colours, an explosion of life. Merchants in bright, extravagant clothes tended to their stalls, selling arms and armour, dresses and doublets, wines and potions. Pyromancers threw balls of fire into the air, letting the flames dance hither and thither before tearing the conflagration apart in a shower of reds and oranges and golds. Priests stood on streetside pulpits and preached the word of the Gods, sweet incense wafting overhead. Dark Elf travellers sat cross-legged on bright, wool mats of a thousand contrasting hues. Some talked, some drank, some sold. Hessinger glanced at one warrior meditating, his face half hidden by the shadows, a sword leaning against his shoulder. Children ran amok, stick-fighting or playing games in the dirt. The older – and wiser – ones rested in the shade, away from the oppressive heat. Guardsmen stood at their posts, halberds gripped by gauntleted fists. Sellswords drank and smoked in taverns, hands ever close to their weapons. Several thieves moved their way through the crowds, picking pockets and swiping valuables from market stalls. One rogue, more bold than most, tried to snatch a coin purse from Kallra’s belt. Instead, he got a broken wrist. After that, no one else bothered them.
Countless attractions surrounded the Arbiters, though they pressed onward, stopping for none of them. They walked with purpose, all distractions forgotten. The blackness of their greatcoats were set against the colour of the city, as if drinking the light. It marked them out, set them apart. Few stopped to look at them, none dared stand in their way. They were agents of the Inquisition, the most righteous of warriors, the defenders of truth.
They were untouchable.
Gradually, the streets gave way to alleys, each one more strait and threadbare than the last. Some were so narrow the Arbiters had to walk in single file, their shoulders brushing the houses on either side. Hessinger glimpsed few people. The little he did see peered at them behind dirty windows or watched them pass from cramped porches. A few called out as they passed, imploring them to buy some old trinket or heirloom. They would get no reply.
After a time – how long Hessinger could not say – they arrived at a squat house with a thatched roof. The walls were a pasty white and hot to the touch. When Hessinger ran a hand across the surface, the paint began to peel. The three Arbiters glanced at one another, exchanging looks. Kallra looked over his shoulder. Sellan did the same. When they were sure the coast was clear, Hessinger raised a hand and rapped his knuckles against the door. Almost instantly, a small panel hidden amongst the boards slid open. Then a voice whispered: “Who are the sanctified?”
Hessinger leaned toward the opening. “Those who cling to faith”, he answered.
A moment of silence passed. Then – with a shrill creak – the wooden door swung open, revealing a shadowy interior. Inside, a robed man beckoned the three to enter. Hessinger quickly strode through, Kallra and Sellan one step behind him.
It was dark inside, so dark you could barely see where you were going. The only light came from two candles on a mantelpiece and a few rays of sunshine wafting in through a half boarded-up window, specks of dust dancing through the luminous beams.The robed man pulled on Hessingers sleeve. “This way”, he hissed, heading across the room. The Arbiters followed.
Suddenly, the hair on the back of Hessingers neck tingled. Looking back, he watched in shock as five more men appeared from the shadows, each one wearing a black cloak. They’re double our number, he thought. The surprise was clear on Sellan’s face. For just a moment, even Kallra looked worried. The robed man reached the opposite wall and pushed open a second door. Immediately, the golden glare of the afternoon flooded in. “Through here”, their guide muttered. “The Inquisitor awaits you.” Hessinger gulped and stepped into the light.
Outside was a small garden, a little larger than the room they’d come out of. Narrow brick pathways wound among the bushes, while two lemon trees sat lazily amidst overgrown grass. It was under their leaves where the Inquisitor sat, elbows resting on a table before him, hands holding a cup of steaming tea. Even a dozen paces away, Hessinger could smell the herbal fragrance hanging in the air. At the sound of their approach, the Inquisitor’s head turned to look at them. A smile curled about his face.
“My friends!”, he exclaimed, holding out his arms as if to embrace them. “You have arrived! I trust you came upon no mishaps?”
Sellan bowed. “No your righteousness. The streets were lively and busy, though none dared trouble us.”
“Except a thief, your righteousness”, commented Hessinger.
His companion scoffed. “A harmless thief. A butterfingered thief. Kallra dealt with him.” Sellan patted the pale man on the shoulder.
Kallra nodded.
The Inquisitor’s eyes lit up with delight. “Good, that is good. Although I fear Mauciron has no lack of vagabonds. A hundred more will take his place.” He waved a gloved hand. “But enough of that.” Sharply, he motioned towards three wooden chairs. “Sit, sit.”
The Arbiters hurriedly obliged. It was then that the Inquisitor began to peer closely at them, judging each in turn. First it was Sellan, then Kallra, and finally Hessinger. The Arbiter felt a chill rush through him when his time came. The Inquisitor’s eyes were a vivid green, so bright they seemed to dull all other colour. It felt as though they were boring into his soul. There was nowhere to look but forward, into his judging gaze.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, the Inquisitor turned away, leaning back in his chair. Hessinger breathed out slowly, his racing pulse calming. Idly, thoughtfully, the Inquisitor sipped his tea, drumming his fingers against the armrest. Hessinger could see he was a handsome man, albeit in a cold sort of way: his face was slender and clean shaven, his long hair a deep black, his nose sharp and his smile thin but humorous. He was garbed in a beautiful robe of the deepest, most bloody red, the fringes an obsidian black. Draped across his shoulders was a silver cloak fastened with snowy-white chains, and round his neck hung a large, golden medallion, the metal forged in such a way as to look like a blazing fire.
The Inquisitors Pendant, Hessinger thought. He suddenly remembered an old rhyme from his childhood, an absurd ditty about the Inquisition:
Beware the man dressed in red,
Wearing a golden chain,
For he’ll judge and lash and break and twist,
Then throw you into the flame.
He glanced discreetly toward the other Arbiters. Both seemed unsettled.
The Inquisitor licked his lips. “Tell me”, he said quietly. “Do you know my name?”
“No, your righteousness”, answered Sellan.
“Interesting. I know yours, yet you are ignorant of mine.” Eyes still looking to the sky, he reached out with his free hand and pointed to each of them in turn. “You are Sellan. They call you the Sharp, because you are quick with the blade and quicker of wit. You are Kallra, and even more silent than I expected. And you are… Halssenger? Is that right?”
“Hessinger, your righteousness.”
“Oh!”, he exclaimed, striking his palm against his forehead. “Hessinger! How could I have forgotten? Please, you must forgive me Arbiter. I’ll be sure to remember. Yes… Hessinger. He – ssin – ger.” He spoke the word as if it was some new, sweet flavour on his tongue.
With a yawn, the black-haired man straightened himself and turned his gaze upon them once more. “This is your first lesson concerning Inquisitors: you may know nothing of me, but I know everything about you. Understand?”
The three of them nodded.
He chuckled. “Good. Knowing that will take you far, but so will knowing my name.” Gently, he placed the cup back on its saucer. “I am Damios Torreda. Henceforth, my word is your law, my wishes are your orders. In service to me, in service to the Inquisition, you must be willing to give up everything and anything, even your lives if need be. Obedience is the gateway to victory, and since we are holy warriors, soldiers in service to purity, our only option is triumph. The word defeat, must never pass your lips. As far as you’re concerned, that repulsive word no longer exists. If I command you to fight, you will fight. If I command you to kill, you will kill. Train, battle, labour, die… all of this and more I will ask of you. And when that time comes, you will obey. I am sure all of you know this. I am certain your faith is strong.” Slowly, his eyes narrowed. “But beware: refuse my will, and I shall rain my fury upon you. I am slow to anger, but even slower to forgive. Remember that.”
A moment of silence hung over the garden. Hessinger knew he should reaffirm his loyalty, maybe voice some promise or oath of fealty; but no words came to mind. Instead, he was still, as still as the statue of Ascended Lyrallah. Kallra and Sellan were equally quiet. He wondered if their reasons were the same as his.
Suddenly, with a swipe of the hand, Inquisitor Torreda lifted his cup again, drained the tea, laid it back down and finally stood up, dusting off his carmine robe. Looking lazily toward the house, he clapped his hands three times and then waved at the Arbiters to rise. They did so without pause.
Almost immediately, the door to the house swung open, and out marched the robed men from before. Their faces were concealed by voluminous hoods, the ends of their cloaks trailed behind them. By their sides, the pommels of their swords could be seen, protruding from beside layers of black wool, the nightly scabbards swaying with every step. Slowly, they formed a line before the lemon tree, each one standing a few paces from the other. Hessinger and his brothers turned to face their number. A queer anxiety filled the Arbiter’s mind, though he knew not to show any fear.
Inquisitor Torreda ambled past, stopping before the robed men. Glancing back at the arbiters, he gestured widely to the arrivals and declared: “Kallra, Sellan, Hessinger; it is time for you to know your brothers! It is time to join their ranks!”
And with that, the six strangers undid the clasps of their cloaks, throwing back their hoods and casting the robes aside. Beneath, they wore the same greatcoats as the three Arbiters, though instead of the usual black, their collars and cuffs were a snowy white. Hessinger instinctively straightened when he caught view of those markings. These were no mere Arbiters: these were Masters of Purity, the elite of the Order.
Calmly, loquaciously, Inquisitor Torreda introduced each of them in turn. The first was a massive, square-jawed man named Theodoric. The second was tall and thin, with lanky arms and a sour face, named Polis. The third was black-skinned, tattooed and glowering, who owned a name the Inquisitor could barely pronounce. The fourth was stoop-shouldered and even paler than Kallra, named Rensfaid. The fifth was startlingly handsome, with deep blue eyes and golden locks that tumbled about his ears, who beamed widely when his name – Sebastien – was announced. Finally, the sixth was slender, gaunt and sharp-eyed, with bright, blood-red hair that fell almost to his elbows and a scar stretching from forehead to jaw, who answered to the name of Ryzard.
After the Inquisitor was finished, he turned and introduced the Arbiters. Of course, their introductions lacked any elegance, and were neither long nor inspiring: they hadn’t done anything of value yet. As such, Hessinger couldn’t help but fret when his name was called. What would the Masters think? Was he worthy of their attention? Did his name deserve to be announced alongside theirs? Droplets of sweat beaded across his forehead, though whether they were from worry or the dismal heat, Hessinger could not tell. Fortunately, the moment of his announcement passed quickly, with the Inquisitors words being followed only by silence.
The uncomfortable quiet – or rather, uncomfortable for Hessinger – was broken by a piercing flick of Torreda’s fingers. Raising his hand, he pointed first to Kallra and then to Sellan, beckoning them forward. The two hurriedly approached. The Inquisitor clapped them both on the shoulders. “Arbiters”, he declared, his voice amicable, but accentuated with just the right flavour of solemnity. “You are to serve beside my personal guard – these Masters you see before you. You are to learn from them, obey them, fight alongside them. You are to become them. Understand?”
Sellan bowed. “Yes, your righteousness.”
Kallra nodded.
“Wonderful.” With a slight inclination of his head, the Masters assembled around the two Arbiters and escorted them away, back into the house with the thatched roof.
All except for one.
Standing alone – face half shrouded by the shadow of the lemon trees – was the Master with the crimson hair. Slowly, almost delicately, Ryzard raised a hand and began to stroke the sharp beard of his chin, his deep, blue eyes watching the Arbiter curiously, even expectantly.
Hessinger didn’t know what had happened. He had thought the three of them would be together, that they would serve the Order united, just as they had trained in the academy. Brow creased, eyes wide, mouth open in a show of panic, he turned to Torreda. “Inquisitor…”, he called, not sure what to say. “Your righteousness… I… I…”
“You don’t understand?” Torreda’s eyebrows were raised.
Hessinger was still for a moment. Then he nodded.
The Inquisitor rubbed his hands together. “Hessinger… in order for any craftsman to finish – or even begin – a project, he must have at his disposal many different tools. You and I are both craftsmen of a sort, though our craft is divine justice, not blacksmithing or shipbuilding or any such other task. Now you are an Arbiter, and Arbiters are my most common tool; though just like tools, there are many varieties. I need Kallra and Sellan for one job, and I need you for another. Do you have any notion of what that could be?”
“No, I don – I wouldn’t know your righteousness.”
The Inquisitor paused. Slowly, his eyes began to narrow. “Corruption runs deep in Mauciron”, he murmured, pacing towards the Arbiter, hands behind his back. “It has infected the city’s very bones. Drastic measures shall have to be taken if I wish to truly purge the depravity festering in this place. I need a scalpel to… cut away the infection” – he pointed to Hessinger – “and I wan’t men like you to make up the blade.”
The Arbiter’s voice caught in his throat. In response, all he could manage was a short, almost choked: “Sir, why me?”
The Inquisitor smiled slightly, halting just before Hessinger. “I have read about you. Your reports and such. You strike me as someone worthy of – how do I say – particular attention. Your father is the Baron of Atherford, correct? Now his first son – your eldest brother – is the heir apparent, his second son is a captain in the King’s Own Cavalier Regiment, his third son is an aspiring magistrate in the courts of Dolreth…” He placed a finger on the pendant around Hessinger’s neck: “…and his fourth son, a one Nathanial Hessinger, is an Arbiter in the Imperial Inquisition.” His vivid eyes flashed with curiosity. “Your family is wealthy. Very wealthy. You are among those rare few who can live their entire lives comfortably without any worry for labour or toil. You could’ve chosen that life; but you didn’t. Instead of luxury, you decided to serve a higher cause. To serve the Emperor, to serve the Temple, to serve the Pantheon. Tell me… why?”
Hessinger was silent. Suddenly, he realised – and with some shock – that much rested on the quality of his answer. What exactly was at stake he did not know; but deep down he knew it was something of immense importance. A breeze tumbled through the garden, scattering leaves and tugging at his greatcoat. For just a moment – the most brief of moments – the burning air was chilled, as a cool wave danced across his skin.
Exhaling slowly, calming his thoughts, he replied in a steady voice: “I didn’t want a life of luxury. I didn’t want a life of comfort. None of that ever meant much to me. I want… truth. I – I love truth. I love sanctity, and – and justice and all that is good. I follow the Gods, wherever they may lead me. And in that devotion, I have come to realise that above all else, I desire the destruction of all things that dare oppose the sacred. That is my calling; not luxury, not pleasure, not comfort. My calling is purity, my calling is the Inquisition. That is why I am here, in service to you, your righteousness.”
To Hessinger’s surprise, the Inquisitor began to laugh, and laugh and laugh. His loud gales of amusement brimmed with a fervent joy. Confronted with this, Hessinger couldn’t help but chuckle along – though done with a certain nervousness. Across the garden, even the red-haired Master smiled slightly, bemusedly.
“And that”, the Inquisitor responded, when he’d returned from his moment of elation, “is why I want you, Nathaniel Hessinger. I must say, you remind me quite a bit of my own younger days.” He paused for a moment to compose himself. “Anyway, that answer is the reason I have picked you. As far as Arbiter’s go, there are many who are more skilled with the blade, or faster, or stronger or more experienced. However, you possess something unique: a deep understanding of our cause. As such, you are of a steadfast will; corruption will not touch you easily. That is why I want you to battle darkness subversively, and from the inside. While others attack from the front, you will attack from below. You will not do this alone however.” With a nonchalant wave, Torreda called forward the remaining Master. “Arbiter… here is your teacher.”
Moving from the shadows, the red-haired Master ambled forward and stopped before the two, left hand resting on his sheathed sword, right hand in his greatcoat pocket. “So”, he said quietly, his voice steady and slow. “You are Hessinger.”
He bowed his head. “Yes, Master Ryzard.”
“Mhm.” For a few seconds, he examined the Arbiter, his eyes creased with interest: first his face, then his coat, then his sword and lastly his boots. Once satisfied, he spat, smiled and then shook the Arbiter’s hand. “You will do”, he announced.
Hessinger was taken aback. “I’ll… do?”
Ryzard’s grin widened. “Yes”, he replied. “You will do.”
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Ranks of the Imperial Inquisitorial Order of Purity
Archmaster of Purity – The principal officer of the Order, appointed directly by the Grand High Inquisitor. Is always either an Inquisitor or High Inquisitor.
High Master of Purity – Senior officers within the Order. Are responsible for leading large forces of both Masters and Arbiters.
Master of Purity – Officers within the Order. Usually are in command of several Arbiters, but occasionally will operate with a single Arbiter or even alone.
Arbiter of Purity – Standard soldiers within the Order. Numerous and obedient, they are the backbone of the Inquisition.
Stars and Towers 