(Three Parts. 5500 words)
Note: This is the draft form of this story.
This story stemmed from the following prompt: You’ve just found evidence that a local hero famous for sparing all his foes, and a masked vigilante going around killing villains, might be the same person.
One
“Move the light closer,” Ryen ordered as knelt next to the body.
“Yes, Investigator.”
The Butcher was as ugly in death as he had been in life. A bear of a man with an untamed red beard and a trail of cult tattoos darkening his square face. He was the prince’s latest capture and had been scheduled to be transported to the prison isle at sunrise.
Ryen examined the wound in the magic-light. The strike that had decapitated the Butcher had been clean, struck by someone experienced with the blade. More importantly, the blade had been exceptionally sharp, possibly enchanted. Few warriors carried such a blade.
The prince was one of them.
“What do you see, Investigator?”
Ryen stood slowly. His left knee ached. “The same as the others,” he replied, hiding his pain. “Our killer struck his victim from behind.” He stepped forward and unleashed an imaginary strike. “One blow was all it took. Even for a man with the girth of the Butcher.”
Erik documented his words. Then he moved the magic-light to the window.
Ryen sighed. “No trail.” Their killer was either clever or lucky. He had avoided the shards of glass planted on the windowsill and the fresh fertilizer that had been recently deposited in the garden. He hadn’t left behind any prints or blood.
“We should have stationed someone inside,” Erik said. “Cloaked them in a spell. They could have provided details on the killer. Perhaps they could have seen beneath their mask.”
Ryen grunted. “And if the killer had discovered them?”
The younger man hung his head.
“Thus far, the killer is only targeting the damned,” Ryen said. “This trap was of our own devising. The king has not authorized a formal investigation. It is not worth the risk.”
“You still suspect him?” Erik asked.
Ryen had forbidden the use of the prince’s name. Investigating such a powerful man without substantial evidence would be viewed as treason. The king loved nothing more than his sole heir. “Aye. There are few who have access to this—”
He broke off as another officer entered the room. “Investigator,” the man said. “There’s a witness.”
*
The witness was an elderly woman with white hair and dark eyes. One of those who walked the royal gardens in the hours before dawn, paying appropriate homage to one of the major deities. She sat alone on a stone bench. Visibly shaking.
Ryen sat down beside her. Even to his weathered eye, the woman looked old. “I am the King’s Investigator,” he said. “Will you tell me what you saw?”
“A man … in a mask … with a glowing blade,” she replied. Her words her slow. Her voice a whisper. “Investigator … was he the Spirit? The one delivering judgement?”
Ryen took her hand. Rumors of the Spirit had already spread through the capital like wildfire. Still, the woman may have seen something useful. “Did you notice anything else? The color of his hair or his skin? Did he hold the blade in his right hand or his left?”
“No,” the woman replied. “The mask covered his face. Dark clothing covered his skin…”
Ryen withheld a sigh.
“… he spoke to me.”
A surprise. “What did he say?”
“That he was an envoy of the gods. That he was charged with delivering justice.”
*
After disposing of the Butcher’s body, Ryen sat at his desk in silence. Erik paced the length of their shared office. The floating light trailed behind him, distorting the dimensions of the small room.
“Why speak to her?” Ryen asked after some time. “He has never said a word to any other witness.”
“Perhaps he has grander ambitions,” Erik replied. “The Spirit is gaining popularity in the capital. By revealing his motivation, he can transition from myth to hero.”
“He is already a hero.”
“Then his ambitions must be even greater,” Erik said. “Perhaps the crown?”
Ryen frowned. “Why take such a risk? The king is old and gray. He need only wait.”
The door opened, bringing their conversation to an abrupt end. The man who stepped inside was intimately familiar. An enchanted sword hung from the belt around his waist.
“Investigator,” the prince said, his handsome face marred by an uncharacteristic frown. “This spirit is tampering with my reputation. I want him captured and exposed!”
Ryen stared at the prince, at a loss for words. He hadn’t expected his primary suspect to request an investigation into the Spirit’s killings … but it didn’t make him suspect the prince any less. If anything, it made him suspect the prince more.
“Well?” the prince snapped. “What is your plan? Surely, you have one. If you do not, I will dispose of you and have another investigator installed in your place.”
Ryen had no intention of revealing the details of his investigation to the prince. Until the prince was cleared of suspicion, he would only provide him with the known facts. “The Spirit has killed three men. All were arrested for murder. All were killed the night before they were scheduled to be shipped to the prison isle.”
“Three men that I brought in!” the prince exclaimed. “His name is the first on every tongue. People are saying that he delivers true justice. That is unacceptable! It is my divine duty to deliver justice!”
Ryen met Erik’s eyes. Only in the walls of the castle was the prince’s true character revealed. He was arrogant and entitled. He brought his bounties in alive not to stand trial, but to parade them through the capital in a cage drawn by his horse. He craved attention. He wanted to be a hero.
The prince slammed his hand on Ryen’s desk. “You’re as slow witted as my father,” he said. “Don’t worry about coming up with a plan. I have already done that for you. The Spirit is targeting the criminals that I capture. We will use my next bounty to set a trap. It will be done tonight!”
At last, Ryen spoke. “Do you have another bounty in your sights, my prince? Have you finally managed to capture the Sewer Dweller?”
The prince bared his teeth. “No. We will need to use a decoy.” He pushed the blond hair from his face and bit his lower lip in thought. “Your face is too well known … but his is not.” The prince pointed at Erik. “Your assistant will serve as our bait.”
Erik raised his brow in silent question.
Ryen spoke for him. “I will not put an innocent man in danger.”
“He won’t be in danger!” the prince exclaimed. “We will cloak ourselves in magic and await the Spirit. When he appears, I will best him in a duel and unmask him. I possess the sword of Rao. I cannot be defeated in combat!”
“My prince, surely there is—”
“The decision has been made, Investigator,” the prince said sharply. “Circulate wanted posters with your man’s face. I will arrest him in the slums outside the city wall. I won’t rough him up too badly.”
Ryen withheld a sigh. “Yes, my prince.”
*
Ryen waited in silence. The stench of magic and blood filled the small cell. The same cell where they had held the Butcher the night before. Once again, they had left the window unbarred.
To his left, the prince’s fingers flexed against the hilt of his blade. Ryen had overruled the prince’s demands to have separate cloaking spells, determined to keep an eye upon the arrogant heir. It was his investigation after all.
Ryen’s argument had been unassailable. Even the prince couldn’t deny the visual effect of two cloaking spells. Anyone entering the room would be able to discern such an abundance of magic. Especially a killer who had demonstrated exceptional skill, one that possibly employed magic themselves.
“It’s nearly sunrise,” the prince hissed. “Where is the Spirit?”
Ryen withheld a frown. Instead of responding, he looked to where Erik sat bound to the wall by chains. The cut above the young officer’s eye had mercifully stopped bleeding. However, his nose would have to be reset. As usual, the prince hadn’t been able to help himself.
“I had to make it convincing, Investigator,” the prince whispered, following his gaze. “If I had made any deviations from my normal routine, the Spirit may have figured out our ruse.”
Ryen grunted. “Be patient. He may be watching us.”
The sound of the temple’s bell startled the prince. He drew his blade and lunged forward, stepping out of the range of the spell. After cursing, he whirled about and pointed his enchanted blade at Ryen.
“Your plan was flawed, Investigator,” the prince snapped. “I will retire to my chambers. When I emerge, I will set out to catch the Spirit myself. I no longer require your help.”
*
Ryen led a squad of officers into the highest wing of the castle, toward the bedchamber of the prince. Erik walked at his side. The magic-light floated a step behind.
“I don’t like this move, Investigator,” Erik said. “Just because the Spirit didn’t appear doesn’t mean that the prince is the Spirit.”
Ryen shook his head. “I disagree. Your arrest and sentencing were completed in the exact same fashion as those the Spirit targeted before. Killers find comfort in patterns.”
“The prince wouldn’t have offered to help us if he knew it would expose him.”
“He unknowingly revealed his scheme,” Ryen said. “If we allow him the opportunity, he will find someone to admit to being the Spirit. He will advertise that he captured the killer when we could not. This was all a game to him.”
“And the words he said to the old woman?”
“Meaningless.”
“The king won’t allow us to arrest the prince on circumstantial evidence,” Erik said. “We can’t prove that the killer is using his sword. We still don’t know how the Spirit avoided our first trap.”
Ryen smirked. “We’re not arresting him. We’re placing him under the protection of the castle guard. If the Spirit appears while we have eyes on him, then we will set him free.”
As any good officer did, Erik knew when to abandon an argument with a superior.
Moments later, they stopped before the prince’s door. It was open. They found the prince’s head in the next room.
Two
Two hours after the prince’s death, Ryen marched through the royal gardens. The man’s head had seemed real enough, but magic could replicate anyone’s appearance. The prince had access to the royal reserves and the kingdom’s best mages. If anyone could fake his own death, it was the prince. He remained Ryen’s primary suspect.
“Perhaps we should take a break, Investigator,” Erik suggested. “You’re limping.”
Ryen grunted. He had been too long without sleep. His bones ached. The injury that had forced him to retire from the king’s army had never truly healed. “The king has tasked us with unmasking the Spirit. I will not rest until this case is solved.”
“We must conduct our investigation with care. Especially since you still believe he is behind this.”
“You don’t?” Ryen asked, coming to an abrupt stop.
“Few are allowed in the prince’s chambers,” Erik replied. “The body maintained its appearance after probing from the royal mage.”
Ryen shook his head. “Those tests mean nothing. The king wouldn’t allow a thorough investigation.” He paused, took the canteen of water from Erik’s waiting hand, and drank deeply. “What of the sword? It should have been released into our care.”
“There was no blood on the blade,” Erik replied. “We have no proof that it was murder weapon.”
“Not yet.”
Ryen continued his determined trek through the gardens. Fortunately, he didn’t have to walk far to find who he was looking for. The elderly woman was seated in the same location he had spoken to her on the morning after the Butcher’s murder. As before, she wore a dress as white as her hair.
“Investigator,” she said in her quiet voice. “Can I help you with something?”
Ryen nodded. “To our knowledge, you are the only living person the Spirit has spoken to. Erik, please repeat her words.”
Erik stepped toward the bench. “You said the Spirit claimed he was an envoy of the gods, that he was charged with delivering justice. Is that accurate?”
“Yes, Officer,” the woman replied.
“You are one of those charged with providing daily offerings to the gods?” Ryen asked.
“Yes, Investigator.”
“To which god?”
“Rao,” the woman replied. “The god of justice.”
Ryen met Erik’s eyes. “Did the Spirit wield the sword of Rao?” he asked the woman. “It is the same blade carried by the prince. It is unmistakable to the eye.”
“The spirit’s blade was sheathed, Investigator.”
Ryen frowned. His frustration grew.
“Does Rao have a temple in the capital?” Erik asked.
“Yes, Officer. In the Temple District.”
“How did the prince acquire the god’s blade?”
“That I do not know, Officer. I only tend a small shrine in Rao’s honor,” the woman replied. “Rao’s head priest would have bestowed the blade upon the unfortunate prince.”
“Thank you,” Erik said. “You’ve been a great help.”
Ryen was grateful for Erik’s presence. He was in no mood for formalities. Erik understood that it was important for the citizens to trust the castle guard. Someday, he would make a fine Investigator.
As Ryen regained his feet, the woman grabbed his wrist. “Investigator, in which of the gods do you believe?” she asked.
“None.”
*
The Temple of Rao was one of many that lined the streets of the Temple District. The king believed in religious freedom; every major god and goddess was represented within the capital. Citizens streamed between the distinct buildings, seeking different deities for different needs. It would be easy for one man to hide within such a diverse crowd.
“Keep your eyes open,” Ryen said to Erik. They stood before the temple’s stone steps. Citizens streamed to either side of them, wary of their insignia. “The prince could be nearby.”
“Yes, Investigator,” Erik replied. He cleared his throat. “I assigned an officer to look into the history of the sword of Rao. It has been centuries since the blade was removed from this temple. The stories surrounding the weapon are closer to myth than fact. Some scholars believe it to be cursed.”
“When was the prince awarded the blade?”
“Three days before the first murder committed by the Spirit,” Erik replied. He paused. “Investigator, there is no proof that the blade is the murder weapon.”
“It has to be,” Ryen snapped. “The Spirit first appeared after the prince received the blade. The Spirit has only spoken to a priestess of Rao. The Spirit said he was charged with delivering justice – Rao is the god of justice. These things cannot be coincidence.”
“We do not have yet have all the facts.”
Ryen ignored the officer. “The prince must have made a deal with Rao’s priest. The priest must know the truth behind the Spirit, the reason the prince committed these crimes and faked his death.”
“I’ll … follow your lead, Investigator,” Erik said.
Ryen led up the stairs and into the temple. He marched through a cavernous lobby and into the main room of worship. There, the head priest of Rao stood by a simple altar, surrounded by a group of citizens with their heads bowed in prayer. Upon the altar rested the sword of Rao.
“Good day, Priest. I am the King’s Investigator,” Ryen said in greeting. “We are investigating the murder of the prince on the authority of the king.”
The priest excused himself from the prayer and guided them away from the altar. “How may I help, Investigator?” he asked.
“We believe the sword of Rao is connected with the prince’s murder.” As he spoke, Ryen cast his eyes around the chamber of worship, searching for the prince. “All those the prince captured using the blade are now dead. The prince was killed in the same fashion.”
A grave expression overtook the priest’s face. “I will do my best to answer your questions.”
Ryen gestured for Erik to take over the interview. He turned his attention to the occupants of the temple, to the area of worship. The prince was watching. He was certain of it.
“How did the prince earn the sword of Rao?” Erik asked.
“The prince sought to rid the kingdom of crime,” the priest replied. “He undertook a trial. The blade was his reward.”
“Has anyone attempted this trial before?”
“Many have asked Rao’s permission to wield the sacred blade. Few have been granted the right to undertake the trial. Only the prince ever succeeded.”
“What happened to those who did not succeed?”
“They left this temple in peace.”
“And the nature of this trial?”
Ryen ignored the priest’s latest lie. He doubted there had ever been a trial. The prince had never earned the enchanted blade. For some reason, the priest and prince had decided to wreak havoc on the capital. The prince’s death was a precursor to something far worse.
I have to stop this before anything else happens!
Ryen approached the altar and studied the blade. It looked just as it had at the scene of the prince’s murder. Spotless. He thought again of the Butcher’s death. Every clue led back to the sword.
“Investigator!” the priest shouted, rushing to the altar. “Please. Do not touch the sword!”
Ryen ignored the man’s plea. He removed the sheathed blade from the altar. “I am confiscating this weapon in the name of the king. I will return it when my investigation is complete.”
The priest’s eyes grew wide. “You must not take it from the temple. You must not remove the blade from its sheath. You have not earned the right!”
“What will happen if I do?” Ryen asked.
“Rao will deliver judgement upon you. Just as he did to the others.”
Ryen drew the blade.
*
Ryen awaited the Spirit in the heart of the royal gardens. The square space was open and flat. Each entrance was twenty paces from its center. In the distance, the stone castle loomed.
Erik waited next to him. Beneath the light of the moon, the floating magic-light was superfluous. The young officer had said little since they had left the temple of Rao. Ryen could sense his unease with the latest turn of the investigation. One day, Erik would understand that difficult decisions had to be made in order to keep the peace, that every leader carried unimaginable burdens.
“What will you do if the Spirit does not show himself?” Erik asked presently.
“You heard the priest,” Ryen replied. “I must incur Rao’s judgement. The Spirit will deliver it. I have forced his hand.”
“And when he does appear?”
“He will be arrested and unmasked.”
Erik nodded. “The guards have been stationed as you requested. The symbols for the magic barrier have been placed. There will be no escape.”
“More importantly, the prince’s scheme will be revealed before reliable witnesses.”
“And if the Spirit is not the prince?”
“They are one in the same,” Ryen replied.
Erik eyed the sword in Ryen’s hand. “We must take him peacefully. There is no need for further violence. Do not forget that the prince is among the best swordsmen in the kingdom.”
“My fighting days are long behind me,” Ryen said. “If he attacks, I will retreat.”
“Investigator?”
Ryen met the officer’s gaze.
“Be careful,” Erik said. With that, the young officer walked away. The magic-light trailed him, leaving Ryen alone in the center of the open square.
Ryen studied the naked blade in his hand. The mages employed by the king paled in comparison to those who had existed during the Age of the Gods. The secrets to forging an enchanted blade had been lost centuries ago. In his heart, he knew that he held the murder weapon.
There remained only one facet of the case to solve. The reason behind the prince’s murder spree.
Ryen quickly grew tired of waiting. “Spirit! Show yourself!” he shouted.
The Spirit emerged from the darkness. Just as the price did, he stood taller than the average man and walked with the gait of a practiced swordsmen. Every inch of his body was covered in black cloth. A ghoulish mask concealed his features. His eyes burned white.
The Spirit stopped a pace before Ryen. He was unarmed.
“I know who you are,” Ryen said coldly. “There is nowhere to run.”
Ryen gave the signal. A barrier of magic-light sprung into existence, enclosing the square. A pair of sorcerers from the king’s cadre emerged from the gardens to reinforce the spell.
The Spirit did not look away from the investigator.
“I want to know why,” Ryen said. “Why capture the criminals and then kill them? Why fake your own death? Are you after the crown?”
The Spirit said nothing.
“Then you are after something greater. Perhaps you intend to overthrow your father’s regime, to cleanse the capital and repurpose it in your image. Perhaps you intend to use the sword of Rao to turn this kingdom into an empire that stretches across the known world.”
Still, the Spirit did not speak.
“Answer me!” Ryen growled. “Face justice!”
“Justice,” the Spirit repeated. Its voice was powerful – obviously enhanced by magic. Ryen could hear the prince’s voice within it. The single word confirmed all he needed to know.
“It’s over. You have no weapon. You are surrounded,” Ryen said, gesturing to the fifty guards who stood beyond the magic barrier. “Take off your mask. Pray that your father is merciful. I will ensure that you are unharmed until your trial.”
The Spirit was silent for some time.
“As you wish, Investigator,” he said at last.
The Spirit removed his mask.
In the instant before his death, Ryen screamed.
Three
Erik had never believed in the gods, old or new. Until the night in the royal gardens, he had thought the gods nothing more than myth, the subjects of stories augmented by the passing of time.
Then the Spirit had removed its mask.
He looked at the sheathed blade in his hands. The sword of Rao. A sword forged by a man that had ascended into divinity in an age long past. A sword that contained a piece of his spirit. A sword that did not belong in the hands of any mortal man.
“Investigator?”
Erik turned to regard Rao’s head priest. The man had had no choice but to accompany him. The king had burned the temple of Rao to the ground and commanded Erik to destroy the blade. In the three weeks since, they had traveled by ship to the other side of the known world.
“You have been banished from the capital,” Erik replied. It had been the first time they had spoken in days. However, he knew exactly what the priest wanted. His motivation was apparent. “Whether you follow me from here is up to you.”
The priest’s eyes lingered upon the blade. “I will follow you.”
Erik returned his gaze to the quickly approaching shore. The desert was an imposing sight. Flat and filled with golden sand, it stretched unabated to the horizon. The last leg of his journey would be difficult. The desert would be the least of his worries.
*
The desert heat was unimaginable. Erik rode in the midst of a camel caravan. His entire body was wrapped in a thin white cloth. The sword of Rao and his supply bag was tied securely across his back.
The priest remained nearby. His eyes rarely left the sword. Erik knew it was only a matter of time before he attempted to reclaim it. The priest had no intention of allowing Erik to destroy the blade.
For a time, Erik rode alongside the caravan guide. The woman was from a kingdom across the desert. She earned her living by guiding such caravans from one side of the sands to the other.
“A word, pilgrim,” she said in her strange voice.
“Do you need something?” It would have been foolish to advertise his true mission. Erik had hired the caravanner and her guards to guide him on a pilgrimage to the tomb. Nothing more.
“The man who travels with you claims to be a priest of Rao. He claims that if we kill you, he would handsomely reward us.”
“You have been guaranteed the second installment of your payment upon my safe return to the docks. You have seen with your own eyes proof of funding, personally notarized by my king,” Erik replied calmly. “The priest can offer you nothing.”
The woman considered his response. “Why travel with such a man?”
Erik looked to where the priest conversed with a pair of caravan guards. The truth was a callous one. The priest believed he was charged with reclaiming the sword of Rao for his god. He had to be eliminated to truly end the threat, to finally close the case.
He turned back to the guide. “Because hard decisions have to be made to ensure peace.”
“You plot against a god and his priest,” the woman said. “You seek death.”
“No. I seek justice.”
*
The tomb of Rao appeared suddenly. It was carved into the walls of a silent canyon somewhere in the vast desert. Time had yet to erode its pristine features. Pillars cut from mountain rock stood sentry before its magnificent metallic doors. Above the door was a depiction of Rao himself. Two priceless diamonds served as his eyes.
“This is where we wait, pilgrim,” the caravan guide said. “The ground ahead reeks of magic. We do not worship this god. We have no desire to test what power he still holds on this world.”
Erik dismounted and surrendered the reins of his camel. “I will return before sundown.” He gestured to the priest. “Come, priest. The temple awaits.”
The glimmering doors parted as they approached. Magic-torches flickered to life as soon as they stepped beyond the threshold. The way forward was lined by artifacts from the time of Rao. All appeared in perfect condition. Within the tomb, there was not a spot of dust or dirt.
They walked in silence. Erik followed the central passageway, ignoring the myriad of doors and paths to either side. Rao had no need to hide his burial site behind arcane traps. His tomb was a monument that was intended to be viewed by his worshippers. Men and women came from across the kingdom to pray before his sarcophagus, to ask for his divine judgment.
Despite his preparations, Erik was stunned by the sight of the burial chamber. Its size seemed impossible given the supposed dimensions of the tomb. Its decorations were more lavish than the castle of the king. Ornate rugs hung from the golden-stone walls. Priceless paintings and murals filled the gaps between them. A dozen mummified men in full armor surrounded the dais holding the god’s shimmering coffin.
Erik stopped before the stairs. The priest stood before him, knife in hand.
“Surrender the sword,” the priest said. “It does not belong to you.”
Erik shook his head. “I lay no claim upon the blade. You were witness to the havoc it caused in the capital. You know as well as I that this blade must never be drawn again.”
“That is not your decision. The sword belongs to Rao!” the priest exclaimed.
“It is a relic of an age long gone. Its time has passed.”
“Rao is eternal!”
When the priest lunged, Erik stepped to the side. The knife passed through empty air. He made no move to draw the blade sheathed upon his back, nor the knife harbored at his waist. Spilling blood in the tomb of a god was nearly as dangerous as drawing the blade.
Erik patiently waited for his opportunity. The priest was light on his feet but unpracticed with the blade. When the moment came, Erik grabbed the man’s arm and snapped the bone below the elbow, sending the knife harmlessly to the ground. Then he wrapped his arm around the priest’s throat.
“I have no desire to kill you,” he said softly as he released the unconscious man.
After retrieving the priest’s knife, Erik ascended the golden stairs, untied the blade, and set it atop the ornate sarcophagus. He couldn’t help but study the surface of the god’s coffin. It had been cast in an astonishing life-like fashion, as if Rao had fallen into an eternal slumber.
The legends claimed that Rao had ascended to the heavens and left his body behind to ensure that he had a lasting connection with the mortal world. In the time since, the sword had been taken from his tomb and traveled the world. Erik had been unable to determine when and how it had first appeared in the capital, what other damage it had caused.
Presently, Erik descended from the dais and opened his bag. He spread magic-charges around the perimeter of the burial chamber. The explosion would activate upon his mark, a magic word that he would utter just before leaving the tomb.
The Spirit awaited him at the exit to the burial chamber. As before, its body was completely covered in black cloth. “You are making a mistake, Investigator,” it said in its haunting voice. It stared at him with its burning eyes. Its alien face remained hidden behind its mask. “Rao’s tomb must not be destroyed.”
“There is no other option,” Erik replied calmly.
“You will be creating a world without justice.”
“A world without Rao’s justice.”
“Rao’s justice is absolute,” the Spirit said. The sheathed sword flew from atop the god’s coffin and into the Spirit’s waiting hand. “Three were slain for atrocities committed by their own hand. They were marked by the blade and thus had to be judged by it.”
“They had already been judged by the crown. Their sentence had been delivered.”
“Rao sentenced them to death.”
“The prince did not carry out that sentence.”
“You’re right. I did.”
“And what was the prince’s sentence?” Erik questioned. “Why did he deserve to die?”
“The prince was chosen by Rao to deliver justice,” the Spirit replied. “Instead, he made a mockery of it. He risked sending you, an innocent man, to his death to bring glory to his own name. Rao could not forgive such an affront.”
“And yet, he passed Rao’s trial.”
“The prince showed the will necessary to wield the blade, to deliver the judgment of Rao. He knew that his every action would be judged and that no man is above justice.”
“What of the Investigator?” Erik asked. “He did not deserve to die. If any deserved to deliver judgement, it was he.”
“He drew the blade without passing the trial and was thus subject to the judgment of Rao.” The Spirit pointed the blade at the fallen priest. “The investigator was warned.”
Erik looked directly into the glowing eyes of the Spirit. “The judgement of your god is flawed. That is why no one will ever wield the blade again. The time of Rao has passed.”
“In that you are mistaken, Investigator,” the Spirit said. It knelt before him and raised the sheathed blade in both of its gloved hands. “You are worthy of carrying the blade. You are worthy of wielding the power of Rao, of delivering judgment in his name.”
“I refuse.” Erik walked past the Spirit.
The Spirit reappeared before him, blocking the exit.
“Take the sword,” it said. “Rao has deemed you worthy.”
“That blade is the last vestige of Rao’s power in this world,” Erik said calmly. “It lay undisturbed for centuries inside the capital. Never once did you appear. Only when the prince passed the trial, only when the Investigator drew the blade, were you able to act in the physical realm. I do not believe that you can harm me unless that blade is drawn.”
The Spirit narrowed its glowing eyes. “You are making a mistake.”
“No. I am delivering justice for all those Rao has wrongly killed,” Erik said. “This case is closed.”
With that, he walked out of the burial chamber. Flames nipped at his heels as he moved through the main passageway. The tomb collapsed shortly after he emerged into the desert.
He approached the caravan guide and reclaimed the reins of his camel. Together, they listened as the canyon rumbled and watched as fallen stone forever blocked the entrance to Rao’s tomb.
“Rao is the god of justice,” the woman said at last. “His spirit will come for you.”
Erik shook his head. “Rao has been judged.”
THE END