Myros the Apprentice tightly clenched his chattering teeth, wondering what was more chilling: the screams coming from behind the plank door or the frigid stones he sat upon. Myros had been sawing lumber at the shop of Eranes the Carpenter when the Investigators had arrived to drag off the Master and all his apprentices into the dungeons of the former Balph City gaol. Master Eranes, who was also a secret highpriest of Allfather Dralm, had found Myros begging on the streets of Balph and given him his first job, had even taken him into his home-an act of kindness Eranes was certainly regretting now. It's not my fault, he thought, I can't stand pain.
The screech of the cell door's hinges set his whole body to shivering beneath the thin tunic he was wearing. The flame from the oil lamp flickered as a shadowy form emerged into the dim antechamber, though whether from fear or the slight breeze that emanated from the cell, Myros could not answer. As the dark figure stepped into the dim light, Myros made out the stark, angular face of the Holy Investigator Roxthar-a devil in human form! The Investigator was wearing a butcher's apron liberally splashed with dried and fresh blood; he didn't know what scared him more, Roxthar's glowing red eyes or the blood-spattered apron and all the anguish it promised.
Myros had seen blood before, sometimes copious amounts; after all, he'd grown up on the streets of Balph as the unrecognized bastard son of some temple priest and a tavern drab who'd died when he was seven winters old. If fact, his life would have already been ended had not Highpriest Eranes taken him in as an adopted son. Allfather Dralm, what have I done?
"Boy, stand up," Roxthar said in a voice that didn't allow for discussion.
"Yes, Your Holiness."
Roxthar's lips twisted into a small smile that somehow was more frightening than his usual tight-lipped grimace.
"You have done well, boy, giving us the name of this false priest, Eranes. Unfortunately, he does not bend to my rod. Are you certain that you have given me all the names of the worshippers of the False God Dralm?"
Myros' body writhed in fear. "Yes, Holy One-I have told you everything. I don't know any other worshippers…"
Roxthar nodded for him to continue. A fresh chorus of screams from the hallway outside the chamber punctuated the motions of his long head.
"For a hundred winters, since the worship of Allfather-I mean the False God Dralm-was banned in Balph, the worshippers of the False God have met in secret in the tombs below the city. Each body of worshippers is kept secret from the others. The Way of the Secret is that only one person from each finger knows anyone else in any other finger. The highpriest is the one person who knows all the leaders of each finger of Dralm's Hand-as the hidden Temple is called."
"How many fingers are there?"
"Only Highpriest Eranes knows, Your Holiness."
"This way of the Hand shows more wisdom than I've given these blasphemers credit for. Unfortunately, the false Highpriest Eranes will not talk. Follow me, boy."
Myros walked into a stone room lit by three flickering candles that reminded him very much of the catacombs under the city streets. Master Eranes slumped from the wall, held upright by the chains on his arms. Eranes' right hand looked strange, and it wasn't until Myros moved closer that he could see that all of the fingers were missing. The stench of burning flesh lingered in the stale air.
"He is a brave man, this false priest," Roxthar intoned. "I'll give him credit for more stomach than my new scribe."
In one corner of the stone cell was a ball of rags that upon closer inspection revealed itself to be a young man in a vomit-stained white robe. The scribe jerked spasmodically and started to choke.
"Boy, drag this sack of excrement out of here. I need an assistant with a stiffer spine for Styphon's Work."
Myros took hold of the scribe's ankles, just above his wooden clogs, and dragged him out of the cell.
"Boy!" Roxthar's voice echoed.
Myros, against his will, returned to the cell like a sleepwalker.
Roxthar grabbed Myros by the front of his tunic, lifting him up into the air with one arm, until he was face to face with his former Master and adopted father. Myros' heart beat wildly as Roxthar removed a nasty looking set of long-nosed grips out of an apron pocket and opened them in front of his right eye.
"This is the boy who betrayed you, your family and your assistants. Answer my questions, and I will pluck his eye out like a grape!"
Master Eranes opened his eyes and said, "Spare the boy. He knew not what he was doing."
Roxthar dropped Myros upon the floor like a heap of smelly laundry and loomed over him like the great golden Idol in Styphon's House Upon Earth. Roxthar nodded to the opposite corner where, unnoticed, a man in black robes, wearing a black mask that covered his entire head except his eyes, stood silently. The man lifted up a piece of wire in both hands, which he held out.
"Boy," Roxthar said, " if your answer disappoints me, my friend here will wrap that wire around your neck and squeeze until your head pops like a boil. Do you understand?"
Myros didn't trust his voice so he nodded.
"Good. What does this false priest value above all things?"
Myros thought quickly and then felt his stomach drop when the answer fell into his mind.
"Speak up, or die."
"His daughter, little Arlass. He always says she is the bright ray of his days!"
A tortured "Noooooo!" burst from between Eranes' lips.
"You have done well," Roxthar said, nodding to himself. "There maybe hope. You have renounced the False God and taken Styphon as the One God. Leave me alone and repent your sins. I will speak to you again after my work here is done."
The man in black escorted him out of the cell and back to the cold stone bench. To Myros, having just touched death's face, the stones felt surprisingly warm and comforting. The scribe was nowhere to be seen; it was as if he'd never been. A horrible howl, somehow less than human, echoed down the corridor.
I am in Regwarn, Myros thought, and all the gods are dead. If Allfather Dralm can stand aside and let his highpriest be tortured and maimed, what good is this god? And Styphon, what kind of god is he? One who releases a fiend like Roxthar to do his grisly work? Henceforth, I no longer believe in gods, only in the evil that men do to each other. I will do whatever I must to escape this madman's grasp.
While his mind pondered the capriciousness of fate and the indifference of gods and men alike, a young girl, her blonde hair cascading down her back in ringlets, was brought into the cell by the man in black. Her entrance was shortly followed by a chorus of shrill screams and a primal growling like that of some beast. Then the cell door slammed shut.
A long time later, when the flame from his oil lamp began to flicker and grow dim, the cell door creaked open, revealing Roxthar, his apron dripping with fresh blood. "Your false priest has given me the names of every blasphemer he knows. We will quickly pluck the garden of Balph of all worshippers of the False God. You have done Styphon's work today, boy. The girl was his weakness."
He threw a handful of bloody, broken teeth at the boy's feet. Some, Myros noted, were quite small.
"Is she…?"
"She rests with her father. I have said a prayer over her body and asked Styphon to accept her in his Hall. She was too young to know Dralm or any other of the false gods."
If only there was a god-somewhere, anywhere-to forgive me for what I have done! Now that I am no longer of use, what new purpose will this monster bend me to now?
"The last apprentice I Investigated informed me that you know your letters. Is this true?"
"Yes, Holy One. Mistress Jomna-" he paused to stop the involuntary circle he'd been about to make around his breast, a sign of the Allfather. Myros gulped. "The false priest's wife taught me well."
"That is what one of the other apprentices, one who was not so cooperative, told us. He will no longer be able to use his right hand, but he has renounced Dralm and accepted Styphon as the True God-as you have."
Roxthar paused to stare into his eyes as though he could peer right through the surface pools and bore into Myros' mind. "Is your faith true?"
"Oh, yes, Your Holiness," Myros said, unable to keep his voice from trembling.
"We will see. For now, you will be my new scribe."
Myros fought the scream that tore at the back of his throat. "Y-y-yes, Holy One."
"First, I must teach you the True Words. How when the Dark God Hadron released the Fireseed Demons upon the Earth, it was Styphon who left the Cloud Temple to take his message to all the mortals. His words fell upon the Earth like rain, but Dralm's evil worshippers caught them with their hands and swallowed them so no one would realize that their False God was the one who convinced Hadron to release his Fireseed Demons…"
Myros tried to focus his attention on the Evil One's words, because he knew that someday soon he would be called upon to repeat them. Still, he could not escape from the lonely scream that echoed at the back of his skull.