Scales of the Serpent
Richard A. Knaak
For all the loyal and very patient fans of the world of Sanctuary.
Prologue
…The world was forever changed by the second coming of the nephalem, but changed most of all was the first among their kind, Uldyssian ul-Diomed. Wanting nothing more than the simple, worthy life of a farmer, he was now forced to become a catalyst for upheaval. Through him would be revealed some of the truth concerning Sanctuary, as the world was called by those who most vied to control it. Through him did others learn of the eternal war between the angels and demons through the guises of the Cathedral of Light and the Temple of the Triune.
And knowing Uldyssian as a threat to all they planned, both the Cathedral and the Temple in their own ways worked to either beguile him into becoming their puppet or destroy him utterly. Worse, betrayed by what he had thought love, Uldyssian became a danger to himself, for he risked becoming blind to what was happening around him even as he sought to free humans from the yoke of those believing themselves the race’s rightful masters.
But although Uldyssian felt that the entire fate of Sanctuary rested on his weary shoulders, he could not know that there had been others fighting for centuries against his same enemies, fighting them despite what had seemed for centuries the hopelessness of their cause.
He could not know this, which was probably for the best…for they, in turn, were not certain if he should be welcomed…or destroyed, just as the angels and demons believed.
1
The city of Toraja burned…
While never able to approach in magnitude or glory great Kehjan to the east, Toraja had still been known far and wide for its unique sights catering to the pilgrim and the inhabitant alike. There was the vast, open market just beyond its northwestern gate, where anything from the known lands could be bought or sold for the right price. Near the city center lay the centuries-old, intricately sculpted gardens, where one could admire the spiral trees or the Falo Blooms, the fabled flowers with more than a dozen variations of bright color on each petal and a scent that perfumers could never match. Beyond that stood the towering Arena of Klytos, home of the Nirolian Games, attracting visitors from even the sprawling capital.
But all those legendary sites, often filled to capacity, were empty this one terrible eve. Indeed, there was only activity in a lone part of the city and the hint of that could be witnessed from as far as a mile away in the deep jungle surrounding walled Toraja.
Toraja burned…and at the center of the conflagration lay the Temple of the Triune.
The flames illuminated the sky well above the three-towered, triangular structure, the largest temple of the sect other than the main one near Kehjan. Black smoke billowed from the foremost tower, the one dedicated to Mefis, one of the three guiding spirits. The huge red circle representing both the order and love—Mefis’s supposed sphere of influence—hung lopsided. Cast of iron, the immense circle now threatened those below as the damage from the fire ate away at its remaining supports. The original constructors had never imagined that such a fate would ever befall the structure and so had not added additional support.
If calamity imminently threatened the tower of Mefis, it had already claimed that of Dialon, to the right. The proud ram’s head—symbol of determination—still hung high, but above it the structure was a collapsed ruin. Oddly, little of the upper level had actually fallen to the streets below; most of the stone and wood rubble lay piled atop, as if the tower had somehow imploded.
Hundreds of figures swarmed the area around the steps, those nearest the entrance clad in the azure, gold, or black robes of the three orders. With them stood scores of hooded, breast-plated figures—the temple’s Peace Warders—armed with swords and lances. The faithful of the Triune fought against a crush of bodies whose foremost ranks were dressed in simple peasant and farmer clothing of the upper lands far to the northwest of the great jungles. The pale skin and tighter garments of these first figures was in sharp contrast not only to the mainly swarthy servants of the temple, but also those making up most of the successive waves behind the lead attackers. Indeed, the bulk of the movement against the Triune consisted of natives of Toraja itself, marked by their loose-fitting, flowing, red and purple garments and long, black hair bound to the back.
Although it was the attackers who wielded the majority of the torches, the flames consuming much of the nearby sections of the city were not, for the most part, their doing. In fact, no one could for certain say how the first fires had begun, only that they seemed to initially work in favor of the priesthood…and that had been enough to turn what sympathies there had been for the Triune into anger.
That anger was all the impetus needed to urge Uldyssian to take down the temple without further delay. When he had initially arrived in Toraja—and once he had gotten over his astonishment at so many people packed into one place—Uldyssian had thought to gradually influence the citizenry into simply ousting the priests and their underlings from the city. But for such a heinous act—in which dozens of locals and even some of his original followers had perished—no remorse or sympathy remained in the former farmer’s heart.
I came to this city hoping to teach, to convert people, Uldyssian bitterly thought as he strode toward the steps. But they forced this upon all of us instead.
Without seeing him, the crowd parted. Any of those touched by the power within Uldyssian—the power of the nephalem—could sense his nearness. The momentum of the crowd paused as they realized that Uldyssian had something in mind.
He had not been the cause of the devastation so far embracing the temple. That had been the results of the more primitive efforts by some of his enthusiastic followers, such as Romus, one of the lead Parthans. Romus was one of a handful of the most advanced among Uldyssian’s acolytes. Partha had been the second place to witness the miracle of Uldyssian’s gift, after his own village of Seram. However, unlike Seram, where the son of Diomedes had been cast as a murderer and monster, the Parthans had welcomed his abilities and embraced his simple but honest beliefs.
Uldyssian was not the image of a crusading prophet as fables usually went. He was no angelic, ageless youth like he who led the Cathedral of Light—the rival sect to the temple—nor a silverhaired, benevolent elder such as the Primus, whose servants now awaited Uldyssian’s wrath. Uldyssian ul-Diomed had been born to be a tiller of soil. Square jawed and with rough-hewn features half-draped by a short beard, he was strong of build due to his hard life but otherwise unremarkable. His sandy-colored hair hung unkempt down to his neck, any attempt at neatness lost in tonight’s chaos. Uldyssian wore a plain brown shirt and pants and weathered boots. He carried no weapon save a knife thrust into his belt. Indeed, he needed no weapon, he himself far deadlier than the sharpest blade or the swiftest, truest arrow.
Or even a squad of Peace Warders, who at this very moment charged down the steps at him. Behind them, a priest of Dialon imperiously barked orders. Uldyssian had no special hate for the fool, for he knew that the cleric simply mouthed the words of his superior, secreted somewhere deep in the temple complex. Nonetheless, both the warriors and the priest would suffer for their zealous loyalty to the foul sect.
Uldyssian let the guards come nearly within weapon’s reach, then, without so much as a blink, sent the entire contingent flying in different directions. Some collided with the pillars at the top of the steps, their bones audibly cracking, while others flew all the way back to the bronze doors themselves, where they dropped in twisted heaps. A few went hurtling to the sides, landing with a harsh crash at the feet of the waiting throng, who broke out into cheers at this display of their leader’s power.