Chapter 26: Cracks in the Wall

Faerel let the water lap up against the side of the canoe. She was humming with anticipation, rocking the canoe gently back and forth.

Her soldiers followed in their own canoes—almost too many to count.

She dipped her hands into the water, and tried to wash the ash of Ingerwald out of her hair. As she did, she thanked the King in the Deep for guiding her through the mountains. The remainder of the prisoners had followed. She wasn’t sure what had happened to the bulk of the forces—she suspected that they were dead. There were too many tricks and traps that the people of Invercard could have pulled once they had advance warning.

Faerel was glad for the inconvenience. It allowed her to take care of Ingerwald too.

Ingerwald—the Fiery Forest. Faerel had known from the first moment that she had seen it that she wanted to burn it down.

The people were so… barbaric. They spoke the same language as the rest of Olean, but they acted in a completely different fashion, uncaring of their fellow man—except that seemed to be no longer true, if the stories she heard about Cael Proper and the Carpenter were true.

What was the solution? Faerel had agonized about it ever since she had been sent for the Drain.

Priests and priestesses had a unique role, given to them by the gods. It wasn’t just to counsel people—anyone could give advice, it was to take full responsibility for getting their charges to the Silvery Halls.

But what did that look like? She had seen problems countless times in Ard-Abthen—new novitiates, fresh from the rest of the island, would have a great religious experience. They would dedicate themselves to the work, to their prayer, and to their studies. It was always beautiful to see, but in nearly every case, her fellow novitiates could not keep up the pace. They would slack in their prayers, blaspheme, and generally return to their messy and irreverent lives. Renewal would happen, from time to time, but it was an endless cycle and Faerel couldn’t help but believe that it was a downward spiral.

It was such a tragedy. The King in the Deep and the four lesser gods judged based on the entirety of one’s live, but what could they do when they saw someone fail again and again and again, taking three steps back for every step forward?

And yet… at the same time, she believed that the King in the Deep gave people the benefit of the doubt. If someone’s life was trending upwards, and were to suddenly stop… they would almost certainly be able to join the Silvery Halls, on the strength of their current commitment.

Once she had came to that realization in Ard-Abthen, the rest of her life had crystalized before her.

Murder was wrong. This she knew. But she also knew that the King in the Deep valued sacrifice from his followers—the sacrifice of their very lives in service to their charges.

For most priests and priestesses, this was limited to pain and suffering. They would work late nights, sweat and work along side their charges, and wreck their bodies to assist and to guide in any way they could.

Pathetic. Anyone could sacrifice their body—pain was part of the cosmic game; pain didn’t exist outside of the body; pain couldn’t possibly touch the soul, unless one bought into its importance. Faerel didn’t. Pain wasn’t important

But the soul… that was permanent. That was a fitting sacrifice. And what was a sacrifice, really? It was getting rid of something in such a way that it could not be returned.

That was why followers of Dotean left their marvels at the temples, donating their treasures to their god. It was why followers of Fiach threw their produce into the Rush or the ocean, drowning it permanently.

By killing her fellow men, Faerel knew that she was damning her soul permanently. She prayed that the King in the Deep would be pleased with this sacrifice, that he would understand why she did what she did and reward her for her efforts, but she did her best not to think about it. If she thought too much about it, it would invalidate her efforts.

Her actions were a gift, something given away. She needed to act and think as if she would never get her soul back, that she would be trapped in the Sunken Hells. Only then would it be selfless.

That was the plan, anyway, buried in her subconscious.

And she had faithfully followed that plan, more or less, since that first killing in Ard-Abthen. She had been caught in Invercard, but had managed to escape into the mountains before being sent to the Drain.

Faerel remembered the sleepless nights, shivering in the cold, weary with hunger. With the assistance of the King in the Deep, she had found the forest city of Ingerwald. She had been incredibly surprised—no one, to her knowledge, knew about this city on the outermost perimeter of the island. It was thought that the isolated mountains ringed the entire island.

Faerel had tried to continue to save the members of the city, but they had caught her at it.

Faerel hadn’t minded. She had escaped then too, and retreated back over the mountains to Olean.

Sooner or later, she had been captured for the third time and sent to the Drain. Faerel smiled as she remembered. She had escaped again.

When would people stop trying? This was a good confirmation for her that the King in the Dead was pleased with her work, and wanted her to continue.

At the Drain, she contemplated the problem once more. Killing individuals was slow, agonizingly so.

Then, one night, it had all came together.

There was a beautiful elegance to the solution. After all, wasn’t the King in the Deep going to end his project eventually? He would break the Wall, and drown the island under the waves.

She was just speeding up the process.

Faerel glanced back at the bag full of explosive powder behind her, and smiled.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

The canoes made their way around the Island. None of her soldiers knew her true intentions. It was a way to strike Olean at its heart, she had said. It was a way to bypass all of the reinforcements that were undoubtedly coming down the Rush from the city. It was a way to plunder the richest city on the island.

And it was a way to save everyone on Olean. She had taken care of the other part of the island already.

The Wall loomed above them. Faerel watched as the water was sucked underneath towards the drain holes spaced throughout the Wall. She glanced upwards. As far as she could tell, there were no guards walking the Wall—were they busy? Short-staffed from their defense of Invercard? That couldn’t be right… it would be a short walk in comparison to the ocean rowing.

Could the rest of the prisoners have won after all? That was a troubling thought. In the end, it shouldn’t matter.

She motioned towards two of the boats behind her. Two burly soldiers prepared themselves, trying to steady themselves against the steady rocking of the canoe. They each threw grappling hooks up towards the Wall. The first caught right away; the second took a few throws.

Faerel decided to chance it, and raise her voice.

“As I promised you, companions. The jewel of Olean, the capitol responsible for putting you in the Drain.”

She smiled. “Have fun.”

Cheers erupted around her. She shouldered her pack of explosive powder, and checked that her sword was still buckled.

Faerel was the first on the rope. It had been knotted in regular intervals to assist those climbing it, and she made short work of the hundred or so feet up to the top of the Wall.

The Wall was bare. It was downright eerie.

Faerel took a few experimental steps forward, towards the Cael Proper side of the Wall. Still nothing.

The rest of the prisoners started to appear. She motioned them forward, and they ran down the Wall and the stairs which lead to Cael Proper.

That was when they were spotted. A guard at some checkpoint house noticed them, and started yelling. One of the prisoners shot him with a crossbow, but the call had been taken up.

“The Wall is breached! The Wall is breached!”

Faerel raised her voice to cut through the emerging roar. “The plan is the same. Use the alleys and the homes. They should have a hard time finding and taking you down—work smart, work well, and I have no doubt that the city will soon be ours!”

She let the prisoners rush past her as she knelt by the guard. He was still breathing.

“You were doing your duty,” she said, quietly. “That was a brave thing for you to do.”

He tried to make a sound, but blood gurgled out of his mouth instead.

She drove her sword through his throat, severing it in one blow.

“Enjoy the silvery halls, my friend.”

Faerel straightened up—and an interesting thing caught her eye.

The Wall had a hole in it.

She opened her mouth in disbelief. Why would the Wall be broken? Who would do such a thing? It looked as if she could walk right in and head straight to some critical areas.

Screams and shouts started to echo throughout the city. Faerel said a quick prayer that no one would fall into despair. Cursing the gods in that way in someone’s final moments… Faerel tried to suppress the memories of fresh blood spilled on rocks, of a cut that was too slow and too gentle.

Was it worth it? Probably. The majority of the island wouldn’t be caught up in this conflict, and would be going about their normal lives. She prayed that people would remain in hope, but even if they didn’t, it was a small amount of souls to lose when compared to the entire island. With luck, they wouldn’t have time to despair before the water hit.

Faerel went over to her bag, and put it to her shoulder. She began to stroll towards the gaping hole in the Wall, and started to hum as she did so.

Olean would be saved soon enough.

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