Anthin returned to the parish early the next day. He was realistic in his expectations about an audience with The Enlightened. That morning found him navigating streets much the same as the day prior. There were still fewer folk about than normal and those who were about did so with an air of reluctance. He still kept a wary eye for city guard patrols. The city had an air, it was as if a storm were approaching though the weather was pleasant.

  He presented himself to Brother Orrin as the man was still at breakfast. “Good morning Brother.” Anthin had no compunction about interrupting Orrin’s meal. He smiled at the greeting, keeping up airs.

  “Good Morning Anthin.” Orrin replied. “I assume you’re here for an update.” He had an almost gleeful air about him.

  “I am.” Anthin knew full well that Orrin was intent on playing this game his way.

  “Well it seems you are in luck. I’m told your request has been granted.” Orrin smiled at him, an empty smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “There will be an escort assigned this afternoon to take you to the Enlightened shortly after the lunch hour.”

  “Oh, this is good news. I shall return at the appointed hour. Thank you for your efforts Brother.”

  He departed the parish with no intention of waiting until after lunch. People in Wayra taken under escort recently had a habit of disappearing and Anthin had no desire to become another. Instead he made his way a few streets over before returning to the yard of the parish. He’d prepared prior to leaving that morning, changing into his vestments and bringing with him some items that were sure to be useful.

  Equipped as best as he could he approached the rear of the parish hoping that Orrin would be engaged inside rather than out. On both his visits thus far he’d noted a lack of people in the building, likely due to the reassignment of clergy and Corps personnel to outlying posts. He was doubtful anyone else was active there other than Brother Orrin, perhaps some small housekeeping staff. He made for the cellar door he’d noted on his first visit, it remained unlocked. With a last glance around the parish’s yard he opened the door and stole into the cellar.

  The layout was typical of almost every parish in Etrusia. A large square room where shelving lined the walls and split the room. The back contained a stairway up and beside that a closed door. That door was Anthin’s goal and mercifully it too was unlocked. He entered and descended the stairs.

  The bottom revealed a dark passage that should, to Anthin's knowledge, lead into the catacombs below the cathedral. Producing a lantern, flint and a small bit of dry tinder from his pouch he struck a spark and managed to get the wick lit before continuing. Typically these passages ran straight with little deviation, their purpose was to facilitate escape from the cathedrals should it be required. Many of them had fallen into disrepair and few people were even still aware of their existence. This particular tunnel remained in good repair.

  He found himself in the catacombs. These caverns beneath the cathedral served many purposes. For the entombment of Church officials who passed away, storage rooms and in some cases dungeons. Anthin was counting on the layout being similar to that of Dimabri’s, and made his way further in. He soon came to the part of the catacombs that did serve as a dungeon.

  Lines of doors on either side of the hall, most wide open but a few closed and locked tight suggesting occupation. He dared not pause for a look lest he give himself away so he shuffled past them with a hand held over his lantern. He wished he could do more, to be able to help these interred folk. It was probable to him that these cells held the missing citizens of Wayra. The ones who’d run afoul of Prestache at least. The more he’d learned of goings on in Wayra the more convinced he became that the Enlightened and General Falmar were acting in tandem.

  Time was his enemy. Eventually his escort would find him missing and after checking Edwyne’s place it would become clear that he was not going to cooperate. He only hoped Edwyne wouldn’t be caught up in things and end up in a cell himself. Once his duplicity was discovered Anthin could bet that they would know he was trying to gain access to the cathedral by other means.

  Quickly and quietly he passed the cells with the hall ending at a short stair leading up. This part held the tombs. Generations of Enlightened, Brothers and Sisters, other clergy and Church officials reverently placed in stone sarcophagi to be sheltered in the lap of the Church for eternity. The most notable had carvings of their likeness upon them, the lowest were little more than a box, maybe with an inscription noting who they were. There were hundreds of them in rows and sections with room for more. He stopped at the last one in his path. It was the final resting place of Saint Wayra. Anthin said a small prayer over the tomb of this revered figure asking for wisdom and fortitude.

  That done he went up another stairway to the storage rooms. Similar to the dungeons as far as doors lining the halls, many just arches. These held the stores and such of the cathedral. Food, wines, treasures, supplies and all the things required to run the place. He was very cautious here as this area would be more likely to have people in it. On high alert he made his way past lines of doors and alcoves.

  He neither saw nor heard anyone about. It was possible the cathedral was running on minimum staff. That much like the other clergy and Corps troops the staff here had been ‘reassigned’ as it would be easier for Prestache to maintain his secrecy. Likely the Enlightened only kept those absolutely loyal to him. It disturbed Anthin to think of an Enlightened in such a way but were he honest with himself he had no doubt about the duplicity of mankind. Even those purported to be among the most holy! He came at last to the final stair and trod upwards to the door leading into the cathedral proper.

  He paused to don the hood of his vestments. From a short distance he’d be no more than another Brother within the cathedral. Then he tried the latch on the door but to his dismay it was locked. He stood there a moment stymied, it seemed his luck had run dry. If he couldn’t gain access he’d have to return to the parish and probably end up in a cell. The door was too thick to be beaten down and even were it not he couldn’t risk the noise.

  Here his caution and what luck he still had again worked in his favour. As he resigned himself to finding another way he heard voices on the other side of the door and right after that the sound of keys in a lock. He hurried back down the stairs in search of an alcove that would conceal him, desperate to avoid detection. He found one, ducked inside and blew out the flame of his lantern.

  He was just in time as the door opened and someone entered the catacombs. The sound of the door closing, two voices conversing as they made their way down the stairs. Anthin held his breath still and invisible in the darkness. He could see a light growing brighter as its bearers proceeded past his hiding place.

  “...and they should have that meddling priest by now. We have a cell prepared.” The voice was unfamiliar to Anthin.

  “Good. The Master will not tolerate any further delays.” Another disassociated voice floated down the corridor floating ahead of the light.

  “Further delays? All is on track and moving according to plan. This interruption is no more than a small bump and all but dealt with. The city is firmly in the General’s grip. The Enlightened is playing his part–as if he had any choice in the matter– and even now more of our people are moving into the countryside. As it stands we will have all of Wayra under our control within the month.”

  “The next phase is wiping out the Church’s forces. Once our people are all in place we will clear them all out. Prestache will send some reassuring messages promising all is under control and by the time the Citadel is ready to act we will be able to keep ....”

  Shadows danced along the wall as the pair passed Anthin’s hiding spot. He was alarmed by what he’d heard, it meant a vaster conspiracy than a coup. As they continued on Anthin dared a peek, his concern overriding his caution. He needed to know who was involved. What he discovered sent a chill down his spine.

  The two men walking away from him were not of the clergy. Their attire of entirely black robes, cowls down showing gleaming shorn bald heads in the torchlight. There was no mistaking that these were members of The Followers of the Inevitable, cultist worshipers of Despair. This was no mere regional power play, no localized change in political dynamics. It was a full assault upon Wayra and the Church from Despair's minions. That such a thing could happen and be implemented with the help of one of the Church’s Enlightened… Anthin felt a surge of rage. This must be contained and the Citadel MUST be told.

  With no time to spare Anthin hurried to the door. He found it left unlocked and made his way through. With his cowl up he hurried towards the back end of the cathedral taking a narrow stair to the floors above. He made no further attempt at concealment, the corridors were empty. He came at last to Prestache’s office.

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  Anthin barged into the room, the heavy door bursting open with the force of his rage. He found Enlightened Prestache sitting in a large chair in the middle of the room backed by a member of the Cult. The room was dark with deep shadows covering all sides. A deeper, thicker darkness was all but impenetrable behind the two men. The cultist was the archetypal example of his kind, overly large and brutish with hair shorn to the scalp in black robes. Menacing with more than a touch of madness in his eyes. A look of anger and alarm flashed on his face at Anthin’s unexpected entry.

  Prestache was another matter as he noted Anthin with a rictus snarl on his lips. Little remained recognizable of the man Anthin once knew. His once hale and hearty form was bloated and gross. He sat nude on his chair with open weeping sores all over his body. His skin shone slick with sweat and almost translucent showing hints of his insides. The Enlightened’s face was gaunt and thin in contrast to his bloated torso. Skeletal with sunken eyes and protruding teeth, his lips practically nonexistent. The worst was the un-natural ropey strand of blackness that seemed to flow from Prestache’s back. A twisting vile looking thread, wrist thick, that ran down his body and along the floor into the deep darkness in the back of the room. It quivered and pulsated as if alive and an unnerving feeling emanated from it. It had the look of some kind of umbilical cord though twisted and dark.

  Words failed Anthin as he surveyed the grim scene. He struggled with the knowledge that his compatriot was deeply entrenched in Despair’s grasp. All he could manage was a strained “Prestache?” and he fumbled for words as he came to a dead stop. When his initial shock passed he sensed a growing menace coming from the deep darkness behind Prestache and the cultist. A vile presence that nearly physically choked him.

  “Look here Holy One. Our snooping Brother has come to us.” The man spoke to Prestache who did not respond beyond turning his sunken eyes to Anthin’s. Anthin noted in those eyes malice and rage yet also pain and remorse, as well as the hope of release.

  “What have you done to him?” Anthin demanded with the full force of his anger and fright evident in his voice.

  “Me? Nothing! His condition is of his own doing and was quite voluntary. I doubt he knew the cost when he agreed to it though.” The man barked an insane twitter of flighty laughter. “You wrong me good Brother. This is the work of my Master’s hand.”

  “How..?” Anthin was still at a loss for words and could barely formulate a thought.

  Enlightened Prestache’s mouth moved slowly opening and closing. His tongue, grotesquely swollen, worked over his jutting teeth trying to wet lips that were stretched thin to the point of nonexistence. “Anthiiinnn…” he managed with great effort. A low dry rasp. “So clear, so simple at first.” It was clear the act of speaking caused agony for the Enlightened.

  “Prestache, are you there?” Anthin was desperate to find some shred of humanity in this thing that was once a child of Sayoshti.

  “Kill… me….” The Enlightened begged him. The mass of darkness feeding off of Prestache through whatever that coiling rope was pulsated like a grotesque beating heart.

  Anthin’s eyes darted from Prestach to the cultist standing at his side. The man seemed ready for anything he might try. Still a chance must be taken. He tried to keep the fellow talking, to delay until Anthin could strike. The man appeared unconcerned, bored even. He hadn’t even called for any help.

  “What devilry goes on here?” Anthin demanded again.

  “Simply put Brother…” The cultist put all his disdain into the title. “Wayra belongs to Despair and there’s nothing your pathetic Church can do. Our plan has been years in the making, devised by the hand of Despair itself. All is already in place.”

  “This cannot be. I won’t allow it, the Citadel won’t allow it! Despair has no home here.” Anthin prayed within his mind as he talked. He had some small tricks up his sleeve, some minor abilities granted through Sayohshti’s Grace. Mentally he prepared.

  “It is all but done, fool! Your Church has no power here. Even now my Master’s forces move into place ready to eliminate the pathetic remnants of your Church. By the time The Citadel knows the truth it will be much too late.” As the Follower babbled on Anthin carefully unsheathed his knife. The man’s eyes glittered with a mad glee and in his triumph he hardly paid attention to Anthin at all.

  Now was the time. “Sayoshti’s Light blind you foul creature!!!” Anthin threw up his hands, dagger clenched, putting all of his will into the curse. He felt Sayoshti’s Will surge within him. There was a flash of light, so bright, pure and warm. The cultist cried out stunned and blinded by the light of Sayoshti. The seething mass of darkness behind the throne holding Prestache reeled back from the light as if pained, it retreated deeper into the back of the room. The pulsating increased. Seconds later it began to coalesce back to its original mass.

  Anthin, emboldened by his success, struck like a viper; taking the cultist through the heart with his thrusting dagger. The man collapsed clutching his chest, gasping as his lifeblood slowly beneath him. Anthin then struck at the dark writhing cord connecting Prestache to the foul evil behind him. He grabbed at it with his free hand, the connection sent a shock up his arm almost paralysing him. His mind connected with something astonishingly vile within the room, something deeply malevolent to all life in Etrusia. He felt its evil as it washed over his very soul. It held him firm and helpless in that moment. Unable to move, unable to sever its connection to Prestache.

  The Enlightened writhed upon the chair, his fluid like bulk shaking. Some of the sores on his body wept a mucus that smoked on contact with the chair and floor. The boils and blisters covering Prestache’s body began to burst and he screamed in agony accompanied by an ear splitting wail from within the darkness. Anthin felt it to his bones and again fought to maintain his hold. The dying cultist clutched at Anthin’s leg but Anthin shook off the weak grip.

  He felt himself weakening–his will drained, syphoned from him as he mentally battled this force of Despair’s will. He fell to his knees still gripping the cord with his dagger held useless in his other hand. The hand gripping the cord was enveloped in agony as it too began to smoke and smoulder. Darkness flooded his vision and he felt himself slipping away from the world.

  He grasped within his mind trying to shore his resolve against this unbreakable resistance. Time and again his will was beaten back by the thing. Time and again he rebuilt his resolve. Should he perish here he intended to ensure this thing did not continue, left to plague Wayra. Desperate he felt himself slip away and fought it with all his being until he must burst from the effort. All was certain to end for Anthin then, but he held firm still until he felt a throbbing warmth at his waist.

  He spared a small thought for it. His pouch was there, with all his things inside. THE ROD. He had a quick thought of it but was uncertain if it was his own. With great effort and the last of his will he dropped his dagger to the floor and reached into the pouch. His hand sought the rod, growing warmer by the second and he grasped it and pulled it from his pouch.

  Then there was an intense light!

  His mind flooded with warmth and love. His soul was fortified by the presence of Holy Sayoshti’s spirit. He regained his feet slowly, painfully. Strength and hope flooded into him as he bathed in the protection of his Faith, the conduit of the rod suffusing him. With a resolve stronger than ever, Anthin struck again! Still gripping strong despite the agony he dropped the rod and stooped to grab his discarded dagger. He sawed haggardly at the rope of evil. It resisted by sending shocks of numbness up his arms and transmitting malice from its very being. Trying to scramble his mind anew.

  Finally he cut through. Fluids erupted from the severed cord burning into the floor. Some splattered on Anthin searing anew the skin of his hand, excruciating pain flared anew causing him to drop the dagger and release his other hand. There was a deafening rush of noise, like wind tearing through a narrow canyon. The mass of darkness at the back of the room gave one more violent pulse and collapsed into itself. Strained further than he’d ever been, Anthin collapsed to the floor.

  Anthin’s next thought was one of agony. His left hand burned still smoking, his body wracked with the pain, twisting his muscles in painful convulsions. He clawed his way from the mental darkness and got to his feet with no idea on how much time had passed. Checking his

  hand he found it a ruined mess, now little more than a lump of flesh, still smoking from the effects of the vileness that had washed over it. He was weak and light headed, swaying on his feet. As his vision returned he tore a piece of his robes and wrapped the hand, it was doubtful he’d ever use it again. Resigned, he looked about the room.

  Of the pulsating darkness there was nothing left. Whatever had inhabited that space and pitted its will against Anthin’s was gone. Whether defeated or fled he knew not. He didn’t know what it was. Some new creature of Despair or an eldritch horror returned from the Abyss, either scenario was equally frightening. The cultist lay where he’d fallen, his blood pooled and mixing with the fluids released in the struggle. The man’s eyes were open and though dead still held a hint of the insanity that ruled his life. Anthin’s dagger lay on the floor a few feet away, twisted and unrecognisable. He spied the rod close to it and hurried to scoop it up. He looked at it closely, feeling no remnant of the power that had surged into him through it. He stashed it back in his pouch.

  Forgetting his own pain was an effort as Anthin moved to Prestache. The body of the Enlightened was a ruined mess, still emitting noxious fluids and vapour from the burst sores, the severed cord leaked fluid as well. On the whole Prestache looked like a mockery of a human being, more like an empty sack than a man. Anthin said a prayer over the body. Whatever Prestache had become, whatever his misguided motivations he was an Enlightened of the Church. One who had begged for release.

  “May your soul reside in Syoshti’s presence for eternity. Sayoshti, may his faith in you bolster the barrier against Despair and may he find peace in your presence.”

  He’d done what he could. With a renewed determination and a sense of urgency he made his way back the way he’d come. The pain was intense and his movement slow but there was no time to deal with it further. The Citadel had to be warned. Anthin didn’t think events here would stop whatever plans Despair had for Wayra. There was still a real chance General Falmar was as entrapped in Despair's influence as Prestache had been. An even more frightening thought, what if he were a willing participant? Anthin himself would have to get out of Wayra somehow after dealing with messages and of course someone would have to look at his hand. He hoped Edwyne had not been detained or caught up in the chaos.