In the heart of Angmar, the chamber deep in the bowels of Barad Durgul was silent and ornate, red and gray marble gleamed with a high sheen as Leon sat uneasily in one of the high backed chairs along the wall. His ruined left hand, two fingers fused together from an old burn, casually stroked his salt and pepper beard as he tried to take his mind off the summons. A few Priests of the Unkindled sat in other chairs, also awaiting an audience with the Southern Deacon. Most seemed casual, haughty. Clearly they expected good news or a favorable posting. Fools.
Leon had been a Spark of the Unkindled for far too long to expect anything of the sort. He was content in his duties. Tending to the records and the hearth in an out of the way little Chapterhouse. He had spent enough years in the field, he had earned the rest…no matter that most Sparks of his age in the Guild would have considered such a posting to be a punishment. He was content to hide there in the ashes, no longer a Spark, simply a solitary Torchbearer of the Scripteria. Now however, he had been summoned to the fireside of the Southern Deacon of the Unkindled without explanation or reason. It could only be for punishment…or worse.
Leon tried to distract himself again. In the middle of the floor of the waiting chamber was a beautifully done mosaic, created of stone and gleaming red gems. In strong, decisive script, the guiding principles of the Guild of the Unkindled were embedded in the mosaic. The Three Laws of Divine Combustion. The First Law: Flame Begins. The Second Law: Flame Transforms. The Third Law: Flame Ends. Those three laws had been drummed into his head since he was a small child, first studying the art of the inferno and the ways of Cinder.
He had done well as a Spark. He had met and married his bride Ira in the field. She had bore him a daughter, Rasha, who grew fiery and reckless in the tutelage of the Cauldron Sisters, a promising young Spark herself, gifted in the ways of Beginning and Ending…until….until.
He sighed. He wished to return to his books and tools in the Chapterhouse. He was about to stand and walk out when the Laybrother at the end of the chamber spoke his voice low and toneless. “Leon…Torchbearer Leon, Scripteria of the Baril Chapterhouse, formerly Sacred Spark of the Conflagration. His holiness of the South will see you now.”
Leon rose…running a hand through his graying hair. Too long…unkempt these days. He used to care. He smoothed down his red and gray robes, somewhat worn, and stepped through the gateway to the hearth of the Southern Deacon.
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Some time later, the Deacon, corpulent and ruddy, leaned back in his chair. His voice had the deep resonance of a gong. “It is NOT for such as you to question the judgment of the Choir of the Inferno and the Will of Cinder. This task is yours and you will perform it, Torchbearer.”
Leon shook his head. “Your holiness…why me? I am old and broken, my flame is all but dead, save for when it is out of control. My field days are past…give this to one of the eager young Sparks waiting out there. They will relish the chance to see the Greenwastes and perhaps ignite parts of it.”
The Deacon leaned back even farther, looking up, admiring the beautiful brass carvings of sinners before the Throne of Cinder in the distant ceiling, the eye of the Dark lord tending and watching all. “Nay..this is perfect for you…old and broken you indeed are Torchbearer, therefore should you fail we have not lost much. Should you be captured, we can say you acting alone out of madness or zealotry…and should you succeed, perhaps your days of usefulness will be returned. Whatever happens, you will not bring shame or trouble to the Archbishop or the High Priests of Cinder.”
The Deacon shoved several thin papers to Leon across the basalt desk. As the older man read the words, the very ink ignited and blew away as black smoke. “Rejoice Torchbearer Leon for this chance to lend your heat to the growing pyre. You are called upon to thwart the complicated and destabilizing machinations of the Unsealed. The Archbishop of the Unsealed, Zariach Indoma, tampers with Eternity and must be…dissuaded. He seeks again the Cenotaph of Aganalu, may her heat be cursed. It must not come into his hands lest the Guilds and all of Blessed Angmar fall into disarray and we all of us serve the Necrotic games of the Unsealed once again. Go to the South, seek the lands known as the Downs, and beyond, Cardolan. Upon the roads find there the Cenotaph, filled with slave blood and heralded by Witchfire and Shadowbane, lifted up by the Quendach. The Cenotaph is called by the Greenwretches and the Quendach, or so our sources say, “Finchley”. Stop the Servants of the Unsealed, or if need be stop the Cenotaph, and we will love thee well, our guttering brother. Rise again, Leon, Spark of the Unkindled once more, and serve.”
Leon sighed. There was nothing for it. He looked up at the Deacon. “I assume when the edict says “stop” it is expected that I will…”
The Deacon smiled, his chubby cheeks even more flushed. “All those who oppose Cinder will be extinguished.”
Leon nodded slowly, already feeling tired, and clenched his ebony wood staff firmly in his ruined hand. The answer was not surprising. “Extinguished….”
The Deacon nodded even as his Laybrothers led Leon out, his deep voice rising. “Bless the Third Law of Divine Combustion and the sacred ash of conclusions. Cinder burn your path clear, Leon of Baril, Spark of the Unkindled.”
