Trail of Inquiry -- WIP

The trail of corruption had led the roving Inquisitor Anthimos de Arena on a long winding path. The experienced man had seen sights that would’ve made lesser men collapse in fear or flee in terror. Some of them had been his colleagues. The last sight of more than a few had been the gray haired man’s dark eyes flickering in the light thrown off by the purifying flames. Anthimos felt it was the least he could do. Watching as they were consumed and purged, as a testimony to that which they once were. The tall and heavy Inquisitor turned his mind away from the burning glow of memory, the chill winds of winter and the moderate pace of his horse beneath him helped in this regard. An ex-soldier had been captured from a slum in the outskirts of this frontier village. He’d been heavily involved in a failed expedition to the Dragon-conquered Dwarven lands. The scene of his disappearance hadn’t boded well in Anthimos’s mind. There had been unnatural marks, traces visible to the Eye he carried. The device allowed him to sense traces of magic. The most worrying thing was that it hadn’t been the heretical taint of Hashut that was detected. Not a trace of flame nor ash.

Inquisitor de Arena’s mind went over the scene of the crime, pieced over the reports of Ozgur el-Yusuf’s disappearance. In his mind, de Arena was already calling it a capture. The locals had mentioned how the solitary man had met with several men in a tavern several nights before. They’d had a distinctly martial air to them and had spent several nights of their time drinking and singing songs of old glory. Old comrades from the expedition, perhaps? Whoever they were, they’d put up a fight. The meager home of el-Yusuf didn’t look as if it had ever been in good repair, but the shattered furniture, streaks of blood, and traces of magic were probably very recent. The remains of the large purple spider, and shriveled black fungus certainly weren’t local. The Inquisitor had made sketches of both as well as the crude carving left behind. The traces of small bare footprints in the surrounding area implied that the men had been heavily outnumbered. Not a single body or corpse left behind. Anthimos was almost certain he knew who attacked and captured the men, but it still didn’t make sense. None of this implied the Dragon lovers at all, but deep in his gut the Inquisitor felt that made things even more suspicious.

The boy Sanzo Almayda had become a man while de Arena had pursued his craft. As with all of the sparse few the Inquisitor could deem a success, the taint of the world had thrown its shadow upon the boy. No true taint remained, for otherwise the boy wouldn’t have lived. Still the touch of it had marred his growth and development. Sanzo was exactly where the Inquisitor had expected him to be. Inquisitor Anthimos felt a slight pang of regret, some part of him easily overlaid the boy he’d rescued years ago upon the now grown figure. The hollow lifeless depths of Sanzo eyes hadn’t changed even across the years. Anthimos pushed the remorse of the past away, a skill that he’d developed through constant exercise.

Sanzo, as almost always, was in the town hall of the small town. They both knew why he couldn’t bear to be away from the bustle and noise of people anymore -- not since the events of his childhood. Anthimos noted that the lad had developed a strong build, and aside from the hollow lifelessness of his eyes, the young man looked hale and healthy. With a grim look upon his face, Sanzo waved for the Inquisitor to join him. Surreptitiously checking his Eye, Anthimos, felt a faint sense of relief that there was no foulness at hand -- not the magical kind, at least. He sat at the table next to the other. The background noise of the hall was loud enough that both found it comforting, if for different reasons.

“I’ve questions, lad.” said Anthimos without preamble. He noted the discomfort that statement always brought, letting it do the work for him. Every little bit helped, and if it would spare him the use of more rigorous methods, then he’d add thanks for it with his next prayers. The small mercies he was allowed to give were few and far between. Such was life for those who stood between Humanity and the darkness -- Anthimos de Arena never failed to be grateful when he could save without bringing pain and death. Sanzo looked to have less discomfort than the usual response -- either a very good or bad sign. The lack of explicit taint or magic spoke for itself. Still, the habits of an Inquisitor were not easily shaken.

“I’ll answer what I can, Inquisitor.” said Sanzo with a despondent shrug. Even the ever-present threat that came with attention from an Inquisitor didn’t disrupt the young man’s listless posture. Some part of Anthimos had long ago recognized that Sanzo would die with that weight upon him -- it had been clear even before he’d truly reached puberty. Quelling another pang of regret, the Inquisitor carefully drew a foolscap of paper from his cloak. Anthimos wasn’t the most deft hand at sketching, but he took care and time with it -- especially when it concerned his work. No detail could be overlooked, the price was often too high to pay without adding in the inevitable frailties of Humanity. With a glance around to be certain that none paid too much attention, Anthimos unfurled it and set it before the lad. Watching the young man instead of the paper, he saw how Sanzo’s throat convulsively swallowed.

“Do you recognize anything, lad?” asked Anthimos, still ever doubting and testing with the experience of years spent in continuous suspicion. Sanzo’s face turned ugly with the weight of holding it all in. He gave another swallow before he mastered his emotion, and then nodded in his despondent way. The young man’s eyes were wet, but still the hollowness of his eyes remained. Internally Anthimos cursed. The Inquisitor couldn’t truly tell if his anger was because the boy --  man, Anthimos corrected his thought -- was innocent or because he’d have to open the lad’s old wounds.

“Which of them do you recognize, Sanzo? Lives hang in the balance.” asked Anthimos, knowing that the boy would have to be prodded. Though the detractors of the Inquisition might not think it, empathy was a required skill for those who sought the truth. The older man gestured once more at the paper holding his sketches, watching how Sanzo’s face moved as he examined the drawings. Sanzo’s dull eyes were fixed on the scrawl of the crude symbol, instead of the spider or the fungus. He stared entranced, as his face twisted with emotion. Anthimos shook him from the hell of memory with a firm grip on the lad’s shoulder. There was limit to the usefulness of such agonies now -- it wasn’t Sanzo’s confession he sought.

“Start with the spider, boy.” said the Inquisitor “What was its hue, Sanzo? Did they have some devilish use for it?” Anthimos pitched his voice with urgency. Sharp enough to draw Sanzo from his stupor, but low enough not to rise above the background bustle of the hall. With a gulp, Sanzo blinked and winced.

“It was a sort of purple mostly.” said Sanzo, pointing at the colorless drawing, “I saw h-h-her prepare it once. It was for some kind of --”. The maltreated child with a thousand year stare glanced at Anthimos uncertain, confused, and afraid. The Inquisitor blinked, and the young man took his place. But the lost eyes remained. Anthimos had to take a deep breath, himself.

“You can say it la-- Sanzo. Was it one of their dark magics?” said Anthimos in a whisper. The man across from him nodded. Inquiry was like surgery, painful and likely to leave you elbow-deep in filth and gore, even at the best of times. Anthimos cut to the root of the matter, knowing that he’d find more offal and dreck. “Did she do this magic before they…*took* you, Sanzo?” asked the Inquisitor, putting special emphasis on the word. At the question, Sanzo’s face fell into unsightly despair once more. The Inquisitor winced internally, while his face remained solemn and professional. The beasts who’d made Sanzo their plaything weren’t known for restraint or moderation.

There would be no way to determine the spell’s purpose by trying eliminate a possible connection with the sexual depravity of the creatures. Another tactic occurred to him. Anthimos tightened his grip painfully on the other’s shoulder to drag him from his inner turmoil. Inquisitor de Arena persisted with his prodding “Did they use it for *battle*, Sanzo?” This seem to snap him out of it, but for his eyes, which would always despair for the loss of that which should not have been.

“She used it on them before battles, Inquisitor.” said Sanzo hoarsely “It did something to their weapons, but I don’t know what. There were words or something like them, but I can’t remember them. When she did things like that, it felt like it was everywhere. I don’t know how to say it.” Anthimos loosened his grip on Sanzo’s shoulder, gently patting his back as if he were still a boy. Patiently, doing his best to cue the man’s memories, Anthimos continued his questioning. He was as thorough as he knew how to be without using blade or flame.

At the end of it, Inquisitor Anthimos de Arena waited for the question he’d sensed building. He didn’t have to wait long. “You’re going to … fight *them*, aren’t you, Inquisitor?” asked Sanzo. Anthimos met those dead eyes head on as he answered a question with a question.

“Is there anything to be found among them to soothe your soul?” asked Anthimos, well aware that there wasn’t. The corrupted forged specific bonds with their victims, their tainted bonds were not generalized in that sense. No member of the corrupted could fill in or substitute for the bond-maker. The void left in the absence of the abhumans who formed the bond had no remedy. Anthimos had made absolutely certain of that when they’d rescued Sanzo. The Inquisitor continued, ever probing. ”If you believe so, I won’t say no to your company, Sanzo.” Wordlessly, Sanzo shook his head. With a nod, Anthimos thanked him and walked out of the hall. He wondered whether the boy -- man he corrected himself once more -- truly had found the opportunity for misguided revenge pointless, or was too scared to take it. After seeing the aged eyes of a dozen widowers concentrated in Sanzo’s ten year old’s face, Anthimos could easily believe the former. On that day long ago, Anthimos had seen to it that every possible vile temptation the corrupted had sown in the boy had been set to rest deep within the bloody earth. Each and every one of the perverse savages. He’d hoped to give the lad peace, but…

In a sense, Anthimos had come to the rescue just in time -- the creatures hadn’t turned the boy with their taint, though his temporal virtue and chastity was another matter entirely. In another sense, Anthimos was far too late to save the child-Sanzo --  the searing flames of their vile corruption had left little remainder of his soul. Inquisitor de Arena reminded himself that Sanzo’s loss of the ability to be tempted was a victory of sorts. There was a truth to the thought, but he was too honest to find it anything but bitter. Now outside and back atop his horse, Anthimos gave himself leave to sigh with the bone deep ache he felt. He’d made certain the lad was cared for the rest of his life. Anthimos didn’t actually need to check on him. Still he always did when the demands of a roving Inquisitor allowed. As always with his visits to Sanzo, the taste of ash in his mouth followed him long after leaving the town limits.