Desert of Dread

Coming Soon!   Read an excerpt below

Abbot Urban IV, Master of the Ecclesia Illustratio sprinted through the South Transept of Varsy’s Church of Light, soft shoes slipping on the polished tiles.  Sweat beaded his mottled pate as, robes flapping, he sped around the corner, past the accumulating masses in the Nave and beheld the gathering in the Chancel.  Huge, plate armoured warriors stood facing the growing crowd. Their leader, the only one not helmeted, turned to him and held his prize aloft.  Urban gasped,

‘You have recovered… but it is not possible...’ he simpered, jowls wobbling.

Servius Rakath, Paladin of Torm, High Chaplain of the Sentinels spared him a dismissive glance before turning and slamming the bloody golden Orb down upon the onyx altar with a mailed fist.  His burnished silver armour glowed, scattering scintillations from the rainbow rays streaming through the stained glass windows.  The sun still blazed this All Saints Eve, and to the teeming ecclesiarchy and peasantry crowding in behind him, desperate to see the sacred Artefact, it seemed to portend of great days ahead.  To all save Abbott Urban.

‘It is done!’ said Rakath in a strident voice, his rich baritone echoing from the fabulous gothic arches above.  Turning to face the gathered throng, he continued:

‘We, The Sentinels, have succeeded, where none thought it possible.’ 

Here again, he cast a withering look at his order’s nominal civilian leader, the man who had doubted them. 

‘We bring succor to the starved, we bring wisdom into darkness.  The very Orb of Torm itself is returned!  Returned, one of the treasures of Basilica Iustitia from whence it was stolen in the dark days after the ascension.  Stolen from the faithful, whom it should have never left, and never will again!’ 

There was a huge cheer from the assorted onlookers:

‘The Orb is returned!  Rejoice!  Rejoice!’

High above, the brass bell of Bahamut in the Tower of the Seneschal began to chime, peeling joyfully into the sunset.  As his brother Paladins stood by, Rakath solemnly raised his bastard sword high in the altar’s variegated brilliance and spoke the dread words, the Oath that would echo down the ages.  The Oath that would destroy them all.

‘We, the Nine, apogee of the martial order

Untarnished, inviolate, invincible.

We, The Sentinels, will remake this world, for the better.

I swear by my life, before this altar, that 

We shall be the Ones to further restore all the Relics of Torm

Tear them by Steel and Fire,

From the blasphemous abominations that have for too long, 

Coveted our sacred vestiges of divinity.’

Gasps were audible, celebratory cheers from those who knew not the import of what was being sworn.  How the ignorant welcomed this hubris! thought Urban.

‘We shall restore them to their rightful home, in this sacred place. 

We Sentinels shall never rest until the Three are Unified. 

By our Will, by our Blood, by our Faith! 

Ne Ferrum Temptatis!

At every staccato utterance, there was a bellicose roar from his brother paladins, smashing swords on shields in salute. The multitude bawled their approval, then together, the elite martial arm of holy power in Varsy, each knight knelt and pledged the same oath in turn.