None dared speak a word in the presence of the Ghast administrator. Bear had come from them shortly after Logan had left them to tend to the widow Waterwell, warning them that their new overlord was both a ‘cunt’ and a ‘paper-pusher’ and that they had best ‘watch their words’. They knew, of course, what most of it meant, but all struggled to understand how Bear could say that a Ghast - a warrior of the Governor; protector of the lands, could be… a paper-pusher.
He sat behind Bear’s desk, his right hand scribbling something on the topmost piece of paper at his side, yet to speak a single word to his three, straight-backed, saluting visitors. Their mouths were all similarly dry and more than one of them felt the unmistakable pressure of terror challenging their sphincters.
His mask glinted in the candlelight of the dark office - a testament to the pristine polish; the dedication to his craft. At long last, the administrator returned the pen to the stationary inkhouse and folded his hands atop the desk, raising the deep, dark pits of his mask to glare that grinning porcelain smile their way.
“So, then… you are it - the last remnants of the Order in this forsaken town.” None of them had expected to hear him speak so ill of their home - none knew what to expect to begin with.
“I shouldn’t be surprised. I knew it the moment I saw the wall - deterioration. The Governor has given you this land; he has given you freedom by cleansing the lowlands. And what do you do with these gifts? You squander them - you let them rot.” Michael’s jaw fell agape the first, followed shortly by his companions. He wished for nothing more than to defend himself - to let this hero know that he was not to blame for the state of the wall. But the Ghast had no interest in hearing them, as he continued: “The deterioration of a town starts outside, you know. First, the walls. Then, the housing… lastly, its people. Tell me, boys, are you deteriorated? Are you corrupted?”
The twins held their breath as Abraham finally broke from his silence to object to the accusation: “Sir Ghast - we are not corrupted! We uphold the Lord’s teachings and would gladly give our lives in the service of Mankind. Please, it’s not our fault!”
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
The Ghast’s movements were deliberately slow as he pressed himself up from the desk and rose to his height, quietly folding his hands behind his back. Eerily silently, he walked to face the boys, staring down at the warriors-to-be.
“Martyrs, you say? And tell me, young priest, how am I to know those aren’t just empty words? How do you intend to serve Mankind?” The question was raised to Abraham, yet it was not he who would be responding. That duty fell to Marcel, who shouted: “W-We want to be Ghasts! We want to fight the Hellspawn!” The Ghast’s head turned slowly to behold the straight-mimed youth in the middle. He hovered before him for an uncomfortable long time before gasping a raspy, mocking laughter.
“Really, now? You? And what makes you think the Governor would want you? This ‘Bear’ has kept you behind this wall for all this time - when I was your age, I had already killed a dozen Spawn. Don’t make me laugh.”
“T-then take us out there! Let us prove ourselves!” Michael shouted.
The Ghast cocked his head. Without moving a muscle, a booming voice echoed within their minds; a distorted, demonic wail threatening to split their heads apart unless they obeyed the command: “Kneel!”
In an instant, the trio fell to a knee, none save Abraham wise as to what had just happened. That was the voice - a rare gift; an ability to command others to do the user’s bidding. It was every bit as dreadful and amazing as he had heard.
“If you wish to even be given the chance to prove yourselves in combat, you have to prove you’re worth it. The three of you will do what the Order was meant to do - bring order. Find me a heretic and bring me his name. There should be enough of them in this town, but I’ve one in mind.” The boys all dreaded that the man’s next words would be ‘Bear’, but to their surprise, it seemed unlikely.
“I’ll not tell you a name. But I’ll tell you that the numbers are inconsistent - someone is stealing the Governor’s Feed and using it to create that reekin mush you can smell in the air. Go find this thieving heretic and give me his name. We shall retrieve him together.” The force threatening the profound discomfort lessened, allowing their free movement once more.
“Y-yes, Sir!” Michael spoke without thinking - all he wanted was to leave the office and get away from the unnerving hero; to have a warm meal and forget about the glimpse of pain that had rung through his mind a moment before. But none dared move from their kneel until they heard the Ghast’s boots clang in the opposite direction - back towards the desk, where he snarked:
“Dismissed.”