THE APOSTATE SAINT

"FRIDOK THE BETRAYER". Perhaps that was how he would come to be known to history, after the high crime he was about to commit against the Lord. The way Fridok saw it, his mark in history would be immortalized in one of two ways. If he succeeded in his mission, he would be remembered as the only man brave enough to do what needed to be done - the savior of civilization. If he failed, then his place would likely be included as a mere footnote - a man tried and failed to steal from the Lord, and was then executed by means of Holy implement - the only real kind of death that there was in Caelon. Fridok was aware of both possible outcomes, and was prepared to do what must be done to end things on his own terms, if it came to that.

Fridok was about to commit a crime against a man who most people now equated to God. Fridok knew the truth. He saw the man for who he really was. He was a tyrant whose reign was even worse for people like Fridok than the way his life was under the consuls. He was supposed to change things, to give all people a chance at living a dignified life. In the end, he had replaced a system of high-born Primisians and poor Solumians with one of Gifted and Non-Gifted, all of his children being the only ones in the new ruling class. All of Fridok's dreams of a better world were crushed by the one man who had the God-given power to do something about it.

The Lord was supposed to break down walls, not build them higher. Fridok may very well be called a betrayer one day, but the man who he was to betray was the one committed the first betrayal. The Lord didn't deserve to keep a weapon of such power if he wasn't going to use it to free humanity from the blight of the demons.

It wasn't hard for Fridok to sneak into the Lord's manor as He and most of his entourage were now out reveling at the Beneficia feast. What men were inside His home were either passed out drunk or on their way there. As Fridok rounded a corner, he was dismayed to see one guard armed with standard issue steel was stationed outside the Lord's chamber.

Only one man stands guard? I should have expected no less from such a man.

If this guard were to succeed in stopping Fridok from entering the chamber and alerted the others to his presence, then at least Fridok would be likely to die by the kind of sword that wouldn't burn away any chance of an afterlife. Even though the success of his mission was critical, Fridok was not willing to end any of their lives with his own Soul-arm. He would never do that to a man...

Fridok considered turning around. It wasn't too late. Perhaps he could find some kind of meaning in what life still lay before him, regardless of the inequity that now plagued the City.

No. There is no turning back, now.

"Lord?" The guard prostrated himself, surprised to see a visitor.

Fridok shook his head. He was no lord. Hearing the man address him as such was like another crack of a whip on his labor-scarred back.

"Stay there. If you've come seeking an audience, I am afraid you will have to come back another time. The feast is nearly underway and the Lord Son is not here."

Fridok approached the man, sizing him up. For one tasked with such monumental responsibility, the man was clearly nervous about it. His right hand gravitated to the hilt of his sword, grasping it more tightly the closer Fridok came. Fridok could tell the man didn't want to use it - after all, a sword of steel would be no contest for one that had the power to rend a man's soul to ethereal dust.

"Step aside," Fridok warned the guard. "Now."

"Can't do that, lord."

Again with that. Fridok, annoyed but unwilling to repeat himself, studied the signs in the way the man held himself. He was nearly as bad as Fridok was at wearing on the outside what he felt inside. Fridok thought the man might piss himself if he came any closer, so he did.

"Last chance."

"Lord, you have to go. Please. Come back tomorrow or the next."

Fridok closed in, just outside of striking distance. "If there's one thing this war has taught me," he said, stopping to avoid projecting his next move to the man who clearly did not want to have to fight. "It's that, you really shouldn't count on there being a better outcome tomorrow."

In one heartbeat, Fridok overtook the guard, pinning him to the ground like a starving demon did their prey. But Fridok was no monster; the man would, in fact, live to see another day. Perhaps he would find a more fitting assignment, one a little less life-threatening.

Spinning around him and wrapping his bulky forearms against the man's throat, Fridok watched as the man's face flushed scarlet before lowering his limp head carefully to the marble floor. Fridok knew he didn't have much time before the man came to, so he took the man's sword and tied his hands behind his back before rushing in to continue with his mission.

Fridok entered the Lord's chamber, a room he had never seen before. It was for the best that Fridok hadn't seen it sooner, for if he had, perhaps he might have given up any hope he used to have for social economic justice long before this night.

Everything in sight was covered in silver that glittered in the firelight. Even the bed frame, overly large to support the weight of the Lord's many wives, was laden with such precious metal. To think that Fridok had suffered in squalor every day of his life while such vanity was enjoyed within the same sacred walls, he felt absolved of the weight of the sin he was to commit. Everything that had ever been written in scripture about humility of the Toriad, the First Man who had the ear of the Namer for thousands of years, could not be said about his Son, the man who Fridok now acted to betray.

Fridok had reflected for a long time about what Alaric might think about his actions. He hoped that some part of what remained of his friend would be inspired by what he was now doing. Perhaps this bravery would inspire a new poem if not a proper song. There was something inherently poetic about stealing something from a room that was, itself, stolen. Perhaps he was giving Alaric too much credit, however. There was little left of the boy Fridok had once known in the man that Alaric had become.

Regardless of the inevitable fallout, Fridok now stood before the object of his longtime desires - the Spear of the First Man. There it stood, hanging on the wall like any other symbol of a wealthy man's status. But this was no tapestry or painting or ornamental weapon - this was the first Soul-arm ever created, the very one wielded by the Toriad, before His Son took it from the City and went into exile. Now, it was time for this relic to pass into new hands in much the same way it last exchanged ownership. The difference was that Fridok would actually use it to make the world a better place for people like him. Wasting no time, Fridok reached up and grasped the shaft, yanking the surprisingly well-balanced weapon off of its display and drawing it closer to him.

As he held it tightly in his hands, Fridok was nearly overcome by a queer sensation which came not only from the spear but also from his own sword. It was as if the two artifacts were magnetically drawn to one another with Fridok's body acting as the medium. In his mind, Fridok felt a cloudy kind of presence that hadn't been there before. Something horrifying crossed his mind, sending a sensation of trepidation throughout his body. Then, he heard someone moving behind him.

No, he thought. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Fridok spun around, expecting to see the Lord standing in the doorway. What he saw instead was the recently guard, shaken up but conscious enough to recognize the danger he was in. The man nearly fell over in the process, but was surprisingly light on his feet as he opted to escape the scene. Fridok, not one to allow another enemy to escape him, pursued the fleeing man. He felt stronger and faster, but he hadn't even absorbed any soul energy.

Between the man's recent state of unconsciousness and his inability to use his bound arms for balance, it wasn't difficult for Fridok to catch up with him. Fridok may have been a short and stout man, but he was still in peak physical condition, even for his age. The man didn't stand a chance.

"Don't kill me! Please!" the guard cried, drool and snot running down his chin. Fridok felt his sword compelling him to kill the man, as he had done thousands of times before against demonic foes. He shirked off the feeling, denying the hunger of his Soul-arm. There was a lot he was willing to do to achieve his goals. That wasn't one of them.

"Be quiet!"

"Help! Help, he's going to kill me! He's got the Lord's spear, send for the Commander! Send for the Saints! He's--"

It wasn't as graceful as a choke hold, but slamming the man's head against the wall was just as effective at getting him to shut up. Once the guard was once again out of the picture, Fridok gathered the Spear and went out of the Lord's manor through the unmanned backdoor. He made sure to steer clear of the sounds of the festival as he ran toward the part of the Wall where he would make his escape from the City upon the horse he had stashed just on the other side.

As he rode out into the night, the sounds of the festival fell away to the ever-present calling of the demons who still hid in the wilds of Caelon. One day, the oppression of the demons outside the Walls would come to an end, and then Fridok would turn his focus inward to face the injustice of those inside the White Walled City. The world would know his name, then.

As Fridok rode toward the mountains to the East, he stopped to take one final look upon the pearlescent walls that protected and imprisoned the last remnant of mankind for so long. It was at that moment that Fridok noticed that he wasn't the only one riding out from the City that night. A small band of mounted soldiers poured out from the main gate of the City, their white cloaks billowing behind them.

At the head of the band that pursued him was none other than Alaric, the Captain of the Guard and Fridok's one-time friend. Fridok breathed deeply the night air, considering the consequences of the inevitable confrontation.

Nothing can ever be easy, can it?

He pulled out his Soul-arm, the sword that had saved his life many times before.

"All right. Let's get you something to eat, then."