Gaellut, Son of the Pact

The City of Dreams… it always was a childish name, casting us as doe-eyed dreamers, sitting on mother’s knee. It was a vision – a vision of Teleria free of the tyranny of Anhelt. A vision we surrendered all too quickly. The air in the chamber was deathly still. A single shaft of light framed Gaellut, who knelt in chains before Iudex Artor’s grand bench. Gaellut always imagined he’d face his end in some final desperate stand against the Telerian League. Instead of a general’s maul, however, his fate would be sealed by the pound of a judge’s gavel. ‘Gaellut, Son of the Pact. You have been summoned here to answer for your crimes against the people of Teleria. Murder. Sedition. Arson. Insubordination. Treason. A mountain of bodies lie at your feet – including those supposed to be your allies. I ask you one thing: was it all worth it?’ The judge’s sonorous voice shook Gaellut’s bones through his chains, his gaze excoriating the Orc’s very soul. It was like staring into the face of justice — justice crafted to obliterate Gaellut down to the last mote, to reduce his entire life’s struggle to nothing. He imagined this is what a Human felt when Gaellut gazed at them – seconds before he brought his ax down. ‘Don’t patronize me with such a stupid question – of course it was worth it.’ Gaellut spat, while stumbling to stand in the face of his unflinching opponent. ‘But my life’s work remains incomplete. Kaerok, Frostheim, Aravia, and the Land of Rebirth still stand. The war continues, and so do I. Unlike the rest of the Gaellen Pact, those spineless supplicants.’ ‘So the butchery of your own comrades is permissible for your cause? Your vision for Teleria is painted with the blood of all.’ Artor’s stare burrowed deeper. ‘Is this your pronouncement, or that of your mistress?’ Gaellut replied, avoiding his opponent’s piercing gaze. ‘Where is she anyway? I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, stop these pitiful attempts at moralizing and get to my execution.’ ‘Your sentence is not death, Gaellut. Far from it.’ Artor reached into his robes and revealed a bright orange gemstone. Even from such a distance, Gaellut could feel its overwhelming power. ‘Is this to be my death? Obliterated by some glowing gewgaw? The Telerian League, relying on a magician’s parlor trick as their implement of justice?’ Gaellut scoffed, his eyes remaining fixed on the pulsating crystal. ‘By the Arbiter’s grace, your being will be absorbed within a Shard, which will be left to languish in the deepest Vault in the furthest reach of Teleria. This room may be the last thing you ever see. Know that your war is finished, your legacy will fade, your name will be forgotten. My mistress may release you, but when, and for what purpose, will be subject only to her unknowable will.’ Gaellut let out an empty laugh. He knew it was a weak display of defiance as he slowly felt an endless pit of dread grow within him. Artor shook his head in disappointment. ‘A living death. No glory. No honor. Your cause remains forever unfulfilled. A fitting charge.’ Gaellut stared forward as Artor read him his final words. He would have no desperate struggle. No freedom. Only this. One final humiliation. Gaellut summoned one last, indignant cry — a primal scream that echoed with the clamor of a thousand Orcs — as his body was bathed in orange light and he, and his war, blinked away. Silence hung in the chamber. ‘Justice has been done,’ spoke the judge.