The odd soldier looked around nervously. His hand started moving towards the hilt of his sword. The curiosity of the crowd of Kamaril soldiers turned to suspicion as they watched the man’s reaction. Another soldier’s hand streaked forward and removed the odd soldier’s sword from its sheath. Several other solders instinctively drew their swords and pointed them towards the odd soldier. The odd soldier slowly removed his wristbands and dropped them on the ground. The first cortain grabbed the odd soldier’s arm and twisted it until the wrist was bared and pointing upward. The crowd gasped at the thumbprint on the man’s wrist.
The hellsoul yanked his arm back and reached for a knife on his belt. Several swords competed for the killing blow as the soldiers around the man swung at his neck. The man’s head flew into the crowd, and the body fell to the ground.
“I want every soldier to immediately return to your barracks,” shouted the first cortain. “You are to remain in the barracks until your cortain gives you permission to leave. Move it.”
The Kamaril soldiers turned and ran to their barracks. Within moments the grounds were empty except for officers and the body of the hellsoul. The marshal of the Kamaril clan came racing out of the mansion. He ran to the body and the two cortains standing over it.
“What is going on?” asked the marshal.
“We discovered a hellsoul in our midst,” reported the first cortain. “I have ordered all men to their barracks. Any man not assigned a bunk in the barracks will be discovered quite soon. I think we should inspect the wrists on every man, one at a time.”
“He did not disappear in a puff of smoke,” noted the marshal.
“No, he didn’t,” agreed the first cortain, “but he bears the mark on his wrist.”
“He also does not belong on this estate,” added the second cortain. “He claimed to be in my corte, and I know that he was lying.”
“Very well,” nodded the marshal. “Check every soldier and everyone else on this estate. I will not stand for any hellsouls among us. Well done, Cortain.”
* * *
Emperor Marak watched the stocking of the shelves in the library of the temple at Changragar. He even helped with the work so that he could personally place the books nearest to the hidden latch. Satisfied that the secret had been maintained, the Torak turned and exited the library. He walked out of the temple and saw scores of Chula hauling supplies through the narrow canyon towards the temple. Tmundo saw the Torak and walked over to him.
“You are taking a great interest in Changragar,” stated Tmundo. “With all that is happening in Khadora, I wonder about your reasoning. Why is Changragar so important all of a sudden?”
“The real question,” the Torak retorted, “is why has it been neglected for so long. The spirit of Kaltara lives within Changragar, yet it has been allowed to deteriorate over the ages. Are not the Kywara the protectors of the holy places?”
“We have protected the Golden Gates, the Sacred Lake, and Changragar for centuries,” frowned Tmundo. “No flatlanders have ever seen them and lived, except for you.”
“You may have protected them from flatlanders,” countered the Torak, “but you have not protected them from the ravages of nature. The condition of Changragar is a disgrace to the Chula. The Qubari and the Sakovans have kept their temples pristine. Do the Chula have less faith in Kaltara?”
Tmundo hung his head in shame as he realized that the Torak was correct. Fortunately for the head of the Kywara tribe, Axor appeared from the temple and joined the small group.
“Do not place all of the blame on Tmundo,” advised Axor. “He has followed in his father’s footsteps, and his father in those before him. The Chula tribes were fragmented by the flatlanders, unlike the Sakovans of the Qubari. Only the Kywara had the physical closeness to reach the holy places, so the Chula learned to worship Kaltara wherever they were. The actual holy places became less important to us. Kaltara did not.”
The Torak sighed and laid a hand on Tmundo’s shoulder. “I am sorry, Tmundo,” he said softly. “There are many reasons to restore Changragar. I will explain them all in due time. What brings you up here?”
“I bring messages from Khadoratung,” answered Tmundo. “More and more hellsouls are being discovered, many before they could strike. There is confusion why some disappear in smoke while others do not. The last killed was a Kamaril soldier. The man had the thumbprint under his wristband, but his body did not disappear.”
“That is something that was bothering me, too,” admitted Axor, “but I think that I understand it now. The thumbprint is indeed the mark of a hellsoul, but the bearer can very well be a normal human being. I believe that the first death of a hellsoul initiates the magic of rebirth. When he arises he is, from that point on, only a spiritual being.”
“So if he is decapitated before he becomes a spiritual being,” nodded the Torak, “he merely dies and will never experience the rebirth?”
“Exactly,” agreed Axor. “The six that were killed near the Morgar estate fit that description. Each body was found to have a thumbprint. I assume that it was their first death.”
“That makes sense,” replied the Torak. “It is still disturbing that these hellsouls are able to infiltrate our armies. Our very customs are their disguise. If we did not wear wristbands as part of our uniforms, the hellsouls’ chances of discovery would be greater.”
“You are the Emperor of Khadora,” Tmundo pointed out. “Issue a decree eliminating the use of wristbands. The hellsouls must be discovered before the attacks begin.”
“I will make it so,” nodded the Torak as he saw Fisher coming through the small canyon. “If you two will excuse me for a moment?”
Marak walked towards the canyon and greeted Fisher. He steered the spy away from the path of Chula carrying materials to the temple.
“Quite the restoration project that you have going here,” smiled Fisher. “You are becoming more Chula than the Chula themselves.”
“Perhaps,” smiled Marak. “What news do you have for me?”
“I finally have a name of the head spy from the Island of Darkness,” grinned Fisher. “His name is Clarvoy. He is a master of disguises from what I have heard.”
“You sound envious,” chuckled Marak. “How do you get this information?”
Fisher frowned and immediately checked to see if anyone was within hearing range.
“You know that I have been good about not prying on your sources,” declared the Torak, “but things are going to become very critical very soon. I must have confidence in your reports.”
“I understand,” nodded Fisher. “I wish that I could give you confidence on my source, but I cannot. In fact, I do not know the source of my information.”
“How can that be?” asked Marak. “You have told me just about everything that Vand is doing. None of your information has shown to be false. I expected a very high source within Vand’s organization.”
“It may well be,” shrugged Fisher. “I have been getting my information from a mage at Raven’s Point. Originally it was from the mage Rhoda, but she was eventually kidnapped. Now Polema tells me what she hears.”
“Polema?” echoed the Torak. “Who is she?”
“Rhoda’s replacement at the Raven’s Point estate,” explained Fisher. “This all began some time ago. One day there was a note waiting for me at Fardale. The note was short. It said that I was desperately needed at Raven’s Point. I went there, and Rhoda approached me. She heard a voice speaking to her almost every night. It was always the same voice. At first she thought that she was going crazy.”
“Crazy?” echoed Marak. “Is she hearing people talking that do not know she is listening? Or is the contact more direct?”
“More direct,” answered Fisher. “There is somebody on the Island of Darkness working against Vand. He sought out an air mage that would listen to him. After many failed attempts, he found Rhoda. He made her write everything down and told her to contact me. I set up a way for her to contact me if she ever needed to. She did so whenever she heard from the stranger.”