The Pendulum's Scar

5. Echoes of the Past

Cults are nothing new on the continent of Calkus. The Cult of the Sea God was a farce, a simple ruse invented by bandits wearing robes, hoping to rob a few unsuspecting idiots. The bandit leader told his new 'disciples' that they must sacrifice their worldly riches to the Sea God to appease him, increasing their devotion. When the Narcys City Guard eventually shut them down, they seized over four glass mesa's worth of stone seals, silver peaks and copper signets. The Cult of Eternal Rebirth which recently erupted in the Hinterlands were different. They were more dangerous and intelligent than common bandits.

Extract from The Scourge of the Hinterlands, by Ivus Selenas.

"Please," Bryn's speech was muffled by the thick canvas sack they had forced over his head. "Take it off. I need water."

His captors mumbled to each other; two distinct pitches. If he could free his hands, two wouldn't be much of a problem. The sack was ripped from his head. He waited as his eyes adjusted to the feeble light of the guttering candles on the table in front of him. He took care to appear as disoriented as possible. Better that they think him weak.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Save your thanks, deviant," one of his captors snapped. He crouched in front of Bryn's chair and stared at him with sharp blue eyes. "It's about time we questioned you, anyway."

Bryn faked a tremble and took the opportunity to size up the man. Average build, yet muscular. A few scars on his face and arms, most likely from combat. Might be more to him than meets the eye, he thought. The man stood up and moved behind Bryn. His associate placed an earthenware pitcher of water and two cups on the table. He filled a cup and drank deeply from it, then smiled at Bryn.

"We only want to know what you are to the Duke," he said calmly. He must be the diplomat, Bryn thought. Original.

"We already have our suspicions," he stated. "But we need you to sign a document."

"I'm listening," Bryn said, putting on a hoarse voice. Better to buy himself some time. The second captor was slim, no visible scars, no real muscles to speak of. He would be no trouble at all.

"All you have to do is sign this," the diplomat continued. "It's a confession of your relations with the Duke. Then you can sit in on one of our prayer sessions. After that, you're free to leave, if you choose."

Bryn heard a metallic clang behind him. Best case scenario, torture tools. Either that or weapons for execution.

"Well," Bryn smiled. "I'm sick of the Five-Faced God anyway. Been looking for a new religion. But please," his voice cracked. "The water first."

"You don't make the fucking rules here, scum!" The muscular man cracked Bryn on the side of the head with a powerful backhand. He flashed a curved blade in front of Bryn's eyes and crouched in front of him. The captor held Bryn's thick arm against the chair effortlessly, as Bryn intentionally put up a feeble resistance. He drew the blade along his arm slowly, creating a thin river of blood. Bryn threw his head back, screamed dramatically, and struggled against his bonds. The man disappeared behind him again with a chuckle. The diplomatic captor stepped forward and tipped the cup of water towards Bryn's lips. He drank deeply and gasped with relief.

"It doesn't have to be like this, Bryn," he said with an air of concern. "Will you sign the paper?"

Bryn looked at him thoughtfully.

"You know, now that I'm properly hydrated, I think I'll have to pass. I never did like cults. Always preferred fucking men." He chuckled. "Your friend's a bit of a looker. Is he available?"