Paragon of Destruction 400 The Oath

"What is this thing?" he asked, trying his best to seem neither too interested nor too confident.

"It's an oath disc," the Governor replied. "An artifact supplied by the church, to ensure that those who swear allegiance to the Imperium are bound to their oaths."

Arran raised an eyebrow. "That sounds like magic."

"A dangerous thing to suggest," the Governor said with a chuckle, though his eyes carried a hint of warning. "And doubly so if there is any truth to it."

"Then I will speak no more of it," Arran replied. As casual as the old man's tone had been, his expression suggested that the words were not to be taken lightly. "But what am I supposed to do with this… oath disc?"

"You hold it as you speak your oath." The Governor motioned for Arran to pick up the disc, then continued, "Now, you must swear to betray neither the Imperium nor its secrets."

"That's all?" Arran asked with a frown that was only partly feigned. "There are no special words?"

The Governor nodded. "The exact words you use don't matter much. As long as the meaning is close enough, you will be bound to the same oath that binds us all. Once you've done so, you will be a Ranger."

Though Arran kept a calm expression, he felt a stab of worry at the Governor's words. If the oath disc required sincerity rather than any specific words, chances were that it wouldn't work for him.

After all, he fully intended to betray both the Imperium as well as its secrets.

Yet with the Governor watching, he had no choice but to try and hope for the best. To refuse would be as good as announcing that he opposed the Imperium, and as friendly as the Governor appeared, that friendliness would not last long if he believed Arran an enemy.

Arran took a deep breath to steel his nerves. Then, his expression calm despite the concern in his heart, he said, "I swear not to betray the Imperium or its secrets."

As a wave of cold emanated from the disc, Arran felt a surge of relief. From the look of it, the disc required only words, and not intent.

The cold spread through his body like a ripple through water, and as it did, Arran's relief vanished in an instant, terror quickly taking its place.

When he had sworn the Shadowflame oath, his Sense had been so underdeveloped as to be useless, and he'd had little idea of what was happening. But now, he could see exactly what effect the oath had.

The smooth white disc sent long tendrils of Essence throughout his body — Shadow fused with some type of Essence he did not recognize — which together formed a seal.

That the disc would place a seal on him was something Arran had already expected. Some sort of seal would be necessary to bind him to an oath, after all. And that a similar seal already existed within him should not be a problem — seals could usually overlap without issue, even if they were virtually identical.

At least, that's how it should work.

Yet what was happening now was entirely different. Rather than the oath disc merely forming a second seal, Arran saw that even as the second seal was created, it began to merge with the first one. And as the two seals merged, he realized that they were creating a wholly new one.

Though he did not know this new seal, he recognized traces of Master Zhao's seal in it — but also a shocking amount of destructive energy. And instantly, he realized that if the seal was completed, all that power would be unleashed at once.

There was no time for hesitation. At once, he gathered as much Shadow Essence as he could muster, then slammed the mass of Essence in between the tendrils that were still trying to link together.

Briefly, the two competing forces remained at a stalemate, the two seals' thin strands of Essence trying to bind together while Arran used his full insight into severing and his control over Shadow Essence to stop them.

Powerful though the seals were, the assault lasted only a moment, then suddenly subsided. Unable to compete with Arran's vast reserves of Shadow Essence, the strands of Essence slowly withdrew, the power that had driven them entirely spent.

Arran let out a deep sigh of relief. The attack had been short-lived, but no less dangerous for that. Had his Sense been but a hair weaker or his strength in Shadow just the slightest bit less, he suspected he would be dead already.

When he was certain that the attack had ended, he carefully removed the mass of Shadow Essence he'd forced between the two seals, wary of another assault. Yet to his relief, none came. It seemed that with the power that had driven the attack spent, both seals had settled in place.

"Are you all right?" the Governor's voice sounded. "You suddenly went pale."

When Arran looked up, he saw the old man stare at him, eyes filled with concern. "I'm fine," he managed. "The sensation discomfited me, is all."

He glanced at the smooth white oath disc, which now lay on the table. It seemed that in his struggle, he had unknowingly dropped it — and possibly saved his life in doing so.

"Are you certain?" the Governor asked. "I felt…" He fell silent, though his brow was creased in a deep frown.

"I am," Arran replied, his tone firmer now. "I just need a moment to steady my nerves."

He reached out to one of the wine glasses on the table, concealing the tremble in his hand as best he could. He downed the glass in a single gulp, and as he felt his heart slow, he breathed another deep sigh.

That the Governor would have felt something was no surprise. As well as Arran could conceal Shadow Essence within his own body, the sheer amount he'd drawn was all but impossible to hide completely. But with the oath disc's Essence mixed in, it should be enough to convince the old man that the Essence did not originate from him.

A far bigger concern was the oath disc itself. Arran knew for a fact that the attack was no mere coincidence, no unexpected interaction between the two seals.

Rather, it had been a trap — one laid with care and cunning, and crafted with a mastery of seals that far surpassed his own considerable skills.

As for the purpose of the trap, Arran had no need to guess. Without a doubt, both seals had been created by someone who wished to prevent others from taking both oaths. The only question that remained was who that person might be.

"Show me your wrist," the Governor interrupted his thoughts. "The right one."

Arran did as the old man said, and as he extended his right hand, he saw that the inside of his wrist now carried a small shadowy image of a sword — an image that mirrored the small black flame that remained concealed on his left wrist.

The Governor spent a moment studying the mark, then nodded slowly. "Though your reaction was unusual, it appears the oath took, nonetheless." He raised his eyes to face Arran. "You should have warned me that you've dabbled in magic before."

Arran looked at the old man with wide eyes, at a loss for words. "Magic? I never—"

"Save it," the Governor cut him off. "Someone with your talents would not join the Imperium except to gain power, and someone who seeks power would not neglect so obvious a path. Even I cannot deny looking into it in my younger years." A small smile briefly crossed his lips, as if he recalled a distant memory. "Nevertheless, you took a greater risk than you realize in coming here. Those who have advanced too far along that path do not survive their oaths."

Arran was momentarily surprised at how forward the Governor was, but then, he recognized the truth. Now that he was also bound by the oath, the old man could speak freely.

Yet at the same time, he knew that the Governor was wrong. What killed mages who spoke the oath wasn't their progress in magic, but the trap that lay concealed within the seals.

"Now what?" Arran asked hesitantly. Though it seemed that the Governor had no intention of acting on the accusation, to be discovered as a mage still caused him no small amount of worry.

"Before we continue," the Governor began, "I would urge you not to speak to anyone about this matter, nor to travel any further along that path. It has only a single destination — the church's dungeons. And for all the terrors the Desolation holds, there are few as frightful as the inquisitors' tools."

Arran gave an emphatic nod. "I did not come to the Imperium to study magic."

"Good," the Governor replied, the hint of tension that his expression still carried finally easing. "With that taken care of, and with you sworn to the Imperium, I can grant you some of the answers you seek. First, what do you know of power?"

"Power?" Arran looked at the man in confusion. The question was so broad as to be impossible to answer. "What kind of power?"

A small smile crossed the Governor's lips. "A good question, even if you stumbled upon it by accident. What kinds of power do you think exist?"

This time, Arran had an answer ready. "Body Refinement and magic." He briefly paused, then added somewhat more hesitantly. "And knowledge, I suppose. Or skill."

The Governor nodded in approval. "That's closer to the truth than you might realize," he said. "Many types of power exist, yet all of them stem from but three sources."

Arran considered the old man's words for some moments, taking the opportunity to gather several large portions of meat and bread on the plate before him. Then, he asked, "So what are these sources?"

"The first of them," the Governor replied, "stands right before you. Some would call this natural Essence, though I dislike the phrase. It is the power of our world itself — the power that forms the basis for Body Refinement, but also for the bloodlines that bolster the Imperium against its enemies."

Arran raised an eyebrow. "Don't those bloodlines get their power from the gods?"

"What are gods but those who have attained mastery of our world?" the Governor asked. "If people gather sufficient strength, does that not make them gods — in truth if not in name?"

The words took Arran by surprise. Little though he still knew of the Darian church, it was enough to understand that what the Governor had said bordered on heresy.

He gave the Governor a studious look. "A dangerous thing to say."

"And doubly so because it is true," the old man replied. "But the truth is what it is, and the power of the lowliest Body Refiner is no different from that controlled by the very gods our priests revere. The only thing that separates them is the amount of it."

Arran furrowed his brow in thought as he pondered the Governor's words. Though he wasn't certain whether he agreed with the man, he couldn't help but be reminded of Crassus, whose power had reached such a level that he could change even his own shape.

Unnatural as the ability seemed, he knew that magic played no part in it. Rather, it was a power that could be said to stem from the world itself.

Finally, he asked, "So what's the second source?"

"The second source of power," the Governor said, "is knowledge. Not the knowledge one finds in books and tales, mind you, but a fundamental understanding of the very nature of reality."

"Enlightenment," Arran said.

The Governor smiled in approval. "Exactly. If the world grants us strength, then knowledge — true knowledge — is the lever that allows us to turn that raw strength into true power. It is the whetstone that sharpens the blade, the eye that guides the arrow. Even the single step you've set on this path will increase your power many times over."

Arran swallowed the chunk of grilled meat he'd just put in his mouth — realizing with some surprise that he'd already finished over half the food that stood on the table — then asked, "What lies at the end of the path?"

The old man sighed. "That is a question I cannot answer, for it is a destination I am still far from reaching. But I can tell you that the road is as rewarding as it is long. With time, you will find that reality can not just be seized but also shaped. As for the marvels that lie beyond that…" A wistful smile crossed his lips. "Perhaps your luck will be better than mine."

"Reality can be shaped?" Though the Governor's thoughts were on the end of the path, Arran was far more interested in what his next step would bring, and how to take that step. "How?"

"I cannot tell you that," the Governor replied. "As it is, your comprehension is still lacking. Even what little I told you may be too much already — any more, and I risk leading you to a path that brings only confusion."

"I'm willing to take that risk," Arran said.

"But I am not," the Governor said. "For now, you would do well to focus on strengthening your comprehension, rather than trying to build a tower on unsteady ground."

Though the old man's tone was friendly, there was an unshakable firmness to it, and Arran understood that the man would not be persuaded to say more.

"So what's the third source of power?" he asked instead. "Magic?"

At this, the Governor shook his head. "Magic is but a manifestation of power, not its source." His expression turned thoughtful, as if he was trying to find words for what he wished to explain. Finally, he continued in an uncertain voice, "Ours is not the only world that exists. There are others — as many as there are stars in the sky, some say — and just as our world holds power, so do these other worlds. To use magic is to draw that power into our own world and wield it as a tool — or a weapon."

Arran nodded thoughtfully. Though the old man's words resembled what he already knew, he could not help but suspect that his own knowledge — on both the topic of magic and that of other worlds — already exceeded that of his host.

Rather than trying to learn magic from a Darian, he turned to a topic the man should know more about. "Why is the Imperium so opposed to magic?"

The Governor smiled, clearly glad to return to more familiar ground. "As the priests would have it, to draw unnatural power into this world is an abomination — a perversion of nature that goes against the will of the gods."

Arran looked at the old man with narrowed eyes. "But you don't believe that?"

"I believe it is irrelevant," the Governor replied. "Abomination or not, the danger of magic is beyond question. Just look at the Blightspawn. Magic has twisted them in body and mind, turning what were once men and women into monsters that know only hatred and violence."

"But not all mages are like that," Arran countered. "To the east of the Imperium, mages are little different from normal people."

"For now," the Governor said. "But how long until they stumble upon the secrets that corrupted the Blightspawn?" His voice grew louder, and the fire of conviction filled his eyes. "How long until they, too, become a threat to all they encounter? And when that happens, we will not have the Desolation to protect us. How long, then, until the entire world is overrun by twisted monstrosities that seek only to destroy?"

The outburst took Arran by surprise. The Governor's earlier seemingly casual attitude toward magic had given him some hope that perhaps peace between the Shadowflame Society and the Imperium was possible, but in an instant, that belief had been shattered.

If anything, he now suspected that the old man favored war with the Shadowflame Society.

Seeing the disquiet in Arran's eyes, the Governor slowly shook his head, then continued in a calmer voice, "There's no need to worry. I will not blame you for the few steps you have set on that path. To be curious is only natural. But when you have seen the Desolation with your own eyes, you will understand that magic is a path that leads only to ruin."

Arran cast a glance at the table, where the oath disc still lay. "What would happen if the Blight found the path to Enlightenment?"

At this, the Governor's expression turned grim. "Then all would be lost."

For several minutes, they sat in silence. From the dark look in the Governor's eyes, Arran understood that this must be among the old man's greatest fears — for the Blight to gain the Imperium's secrets, and turn them against the Darians.

Finally, Arran could bear the oppressive silence no more. "What is the Desolation, exactly?" he asked, as much out of genuine curiosity as to break the silence.

The old man gave him a wry look. "Another question I cannot answer. The priests have their theories, but I will not bore you with myths and legends. What I can tell you is what the Desolation does — which is to suppress all power, both magical and natural."

"All power?" Arran narrowed his eyes. "You mean the Desolation also suppresses Body Refinement? And bloodlines?"

"Just so," the Governor answered. "Once you step into the Desolation, much of your strength will be suppressed. The strong will retain more than the weak, but the differences between them are greatly diminished."

"But then…" Arran began, but he stopped mid-sentence as understanding dawned in his mind. "Enlightenment."

"Exactly." The Governor nodded in agreement. "The Desolation affects us as much as it does the Blightspawn, but while it suppresses raw power, it does not suppress knowledge. In the Desolation, insights are more valuable than strength, and Enlightenment is more valuable still. That is why their attacks have yet to break us."

Though some pride sounded in the Governor's voice, Arran could not help but feel a shiver of worry. He'd long relied on the Blood Ruin and his physical strength, and if both were suppressed, many of his advantages would disappear. And not just that — it seemed that even his magic would lose much of its strength.

The Governor, however, gave him an encouraging look. "Do not worry. While you will lose some of your strength, your step into Enlightenment will more than make up for it. The Desolation suppresses mages and those who rely too heavily on bloodlines, but for one such as you, it's a blessing."

Arran managed an awkward smile. "I suppose there's only one way to find out."

"Indeed," the Governor agreed. "But I see that you have finished your meal. Before you leave, one matter remains — the second debt I owe you." He reached into his robe and produced a jet-black amulet, which he handed to Arran. "This is a Warlock's amulet, taken from the creature you helped find. You will be able to exchange it once you reach Sacrifice."

"Thank you," Arran said as he accepted the amulet. He'd half expected that the old man would consider his wisdom the second favor, but instead, it seemed he'd opted for something more tangible.

"A word of caution," the Governor continued. "The church offers many rewards, and none are more valuable than the bloodlines. Be cautious in choosing. For each bloodline you take, the next will cost you twice as much."

Arran frowned. "Why?"

"It isn't stinginess on the priests' part," the Governor explained. "Not entirely, at least. Rather, each additional bloodline one receives requires a greater amount of the gods' blood. To gain more than a handful of bloodlines is beyond even the wealthiest Lords in the Imperium."

A wry smile crossed Arran's face. Another setback, then. With as much trouble as it had taken for him just to gain the main Darian bloodline, he could only imagine how difficult it would be to gain any others.

But that was something he could not change, and he did not dwell on it. If he would have to win more amulets to gain his bloodlines, that merely meant he would have to kill more Blightspawn — a task he would gladly accept.

A quarter-hour after Arran said his goodbyes to the Governor, he stepped out of the keep, thoughts still abuzz with the events of the past few days.

Just his encounter with Panurge was enough to raise many questions. Foremost among these was how much — if anything — of the dream had been true. But as much as he hoped that it was just another trick, he had a faint feeling that this time, the trickster god might not have lied.

Yet if Panurge's vision was discomfiting, so too was the thought that Panurge could intrude upon his dreams. Worse still, he half suspected that the self-proclaimed god was aware of his every move, and could choose to interfere at any moment.

And then, there were the things the Governor had revealed. Once Arran stepped into the Desolation, much of his strength would be suppressed. And while the Blightspawn would be weakened even more, the same would not be true for any Darians he faced.

Yet despite these questions — and the many others that accompanied them — Arran found that his thoughts kept returning to a single matter.

The oath disc.

Impossible though it seemed, there was no denying that the discs in both the Shadowflame Society and the Imperium came from the same source. And whoever that might be, they had crafted a deadly trap for anyone who tried to join both sides.

As Arran considered it, he found only a single possible reason for anyone to lay such a trap — whoever had crafted it was determined to prevent others from gaining both sides' secrets.

Which meant he had an enemy. And not just any enemy, but one whose influence extended to both the Shadowflame Society and the Imperium, and whose skill at seals dwarfed his own.

It was a disquieting thought, and the only thing that brought Arran some comfort was that although he did not know who this enemy was, the reverse held true as well.

But he also realized that when he returned to the Ninth Valley, that might change. If word got out that he'd gained the Darians' secrets, then whoever had laid the trap would likely soon learn of his existence.

At that moment, a voice sounded in the distance. "Wait! Please!"

Arran turned around with a start, quickly realizing that while he was absorbed in thought, he'd already left the city's upper levels behind. And as he looked, he saw that the person who had called out was a middle-aged Ranger in a shabby uniform.

The man came approached him at an awkward run that wasn't helped by his considerable girth, and as he came to a stop before Arran, he took several moments to catch his breath. Not an accomplished Body Refiner, then.

"What is it?" Arran asked, eyebrow raised in wonder as he peered at the man. From his appearance, the Ranger seemed more suited to innkeeping than to battle.

"I wanted to thank you," the Ranger said, still panting as he spoke.

"For what?" Arran almost felt worried as he looked at the man. Red-faced and still out of breath, he appeared as if he could keel over at any moment.

The man took several deep breaths. Then, a look of reverence in his eyes, he said, "What you taught me… I had long given up hope of progressing any further. But now… I can feel I'm on the verge of reaching a breakthrough."

Arran understood that this must be one of the opponents he'd faced while working toward his own breakthrough, and he gave the man a friendly nod. "I'm glad it was helpful to you."

To his surprise, the Ranger responded with a vehement shake of his head. "You don't understand… For twenty years, I…" Again he shook his head, then fumbled for his coin purse, which he shoved into Arran's hands. "Take this. It's all I have."

Though Arran was tempted to accept the gift — if nothing else, it might end the increasingly awkward encounter — a single glance at the Ranger was enough to tell him that the man had no treasure to spare. Even the blade at his side was made out of common steel rather than starmetal.

Ignoring the Ranger's protestations, he handed the coin purse back. "You should save up for a proper sword, first."

"But—" the man began.

"Consider it a favor owed," Arran cut him off.

For a moment, the Ranger hesitated. Then, he gave a bow so deep it almost seemed like he would fall over. "I will repay the favor," he said in a fervent voice. "You have my word."

Arran managed a friendly smile and a nod, then quickly hurried off.

Yet he'd barely gone two hundred paces when a man stepped out in front of him — another Ranger, though this one wore a starmetal sword along with a uniform that suggested he possessed no small amount of wealth.

"You're the one that defeated the Knight, aren't you?"

"I am," Arran replied. "But I need to be on my way."

The Ranger showed no sign of moving aside, however. "You don't look so tough to me." He glanced at a group of similarly uniformed Rangers who stood several paces away, next to the entrance of one of the city's many taverns. "Think I could take him?"

"Idiot!" one of them said, a young man who stepped forward as he recognized what was happening. "He'd gut you like a fish, and have the Governor's blessing in doing so. Now move aside!"

As the first man hurriedly moved aside, this new Ranger cast an appraising look at Arran. "I apologize for my commander's behavior. I will see to it that he is punished."

"There's no need for that," Arran said with a dismissive gesture. "But I must be on my way."

"One moment," the Ranger said. "You are named Arran, correct? With the Wolfsblood Army?"

Arran paused mid-stride, a frown on his face as he looked at the Ranger. "Is that a problem?"

"Quite the opposite." The Ranger gave him a smooth smile, then stepped closer as if he was welcoming an old friend. "For a Ranger to best a Knight is no small achievement. Yet to see your talents wasted in an army of prisoners and outsiders is a tragedy. Perhaps you would consider joining—"

"Not interested," Arran interrupted him. Before the Ranger could say anything further, he pushed his way past the young man and continued on his way, albeit at a more rapid pace than before.

Yet as he made his way through the city, more interruptions followed, with other Rangers and soldiers stopping him as he walked. Some to offer challenges, some to offer thanks — though none quite as fervently as the first man — and more still who tried to recruit him.

Arran was friendly if somewhat curt to those who thanked him, but the rest he ignored as best he could. Still, by the time he finally reached the training fields in the outermost part of Knight's Watch, he found that he was running more than walking.

It was only when he reached the Wolfsblood Army that he breathed a silent sigh of relief. Though he had known that his actions would draw attention, he hadn't expected anything quite like this.

As he approached the training soldiers, it only took a moment before a call sounded. "It's Master Arran! He's back!"

For a moment, Arran stared in astonishment, but his expression quickly turned to one of horror when dozens of soldiers crowded around him, their voices drowning each other out in an excited murmur.

"Barric!" he called out, easily recognizing the giant Ranger among the crowd of soldiers. "Take me to Kaleesh!"

"Of course, Master Arran!" Barric replied, nodding with a deference that made Arran's eyes widen in wonder. Then, in a decidedly less subservient tone, he roared, "The rest of you dogs, get back to your damn practice!"

Arran arrived at Kaleesh's mansion a few minutes later, where he saw the captain already standing in front of the building, his expression one of utmost relief.

"It's good to see you," Kaleesh said. "When you didn't return…" He paused, then gave a slow shake of his head. "You had me worried."

"It's good to see you, too," Arran replied. "Now, when can we leave?"

Chapter end