Draihan was lost in thought as he wandered out of the forest on his way to a local village. Normally he’d stay and help Müller but he wanted to give his apprentice space. The kid was under a lot of stress being recently orphaned and then willingly joining a pit of vipers like the Necromancer Guild. Then there’s the matter of his mother which was… unresolved. The kind lady Ribold called “Mom” was Katharsis Merron, the most dangerous necromancer Draihan had ever met. While Grandmaster Vol was the undisputed reigning superior, Katharsis had infected their ranks like a disease. Her aptitude allowed her to master many different schools and she surpassed Draihan with ease.
“You there!”
Draihan blinked, his mind refocusing on the present.
“I said stop!” Someone commanded.
Draihan turned and saw a friar armed with a processional cross. The large golden cross had to be over four feet long. Draihan raised his hand to his neck and made an audible pop sound while turning to fully face his challenger. The friar pointed a ringed finger at Draihan.
“We’d know your heresy anywhere!”
“A crucifer should raise that cross and continue on his way to perform good deeds,” Draihan warned.
“Donatien Gagne! You’re wanted for crimes against the holy God and his church! Answer your summoning peacefully or be dispatched to hell here and now!”
Draihan hadn’t heard that name in a long time. “Donatien Gagne died. Executed by the Inquisition alongside his wife and child.”
“Herr Gagne. You are a liar and a blasphemer!”
“And you’re just a bounty hunter with an aesthetically pleasing weapon. What was it our holy god said? He who is without sin cast the first stone?” The bottom of the processional cross unlatched and fell to the ground revealing the cross to be the handle of a Zweihänder.
“It is the duty of the blessed ones to purge the wicked from the earth!” the crucifer
friar roared.
“Just like Louise, and Peggy,” Draihan whispered visibly shaking.
“Ad favilla inimicus!” The Zweihänder burst into flames and undulated to become a wavy metal Flammenschwert that blazed with flames of red and gold. The outline of the fiery Zweihänder reflected in Draihan’s eyes. The crucifer friar raised the massive flaming blade and charged. Draihan stood watching until the friar was ½ of his blade length away and recklessly swung down. Draihan sidestepped the wild swing and it plunged into a puddle Draihan had stood over; but rather than douse the flames hot steam erupted forcing both to opposite sides of the puddle as the remaining water boiled away.
“Tell me,” Draihan asked firmly, “do you know anyone who witnessed the Inquisition outside of Lyons?”
“Oh? Why? Angry that you had to watch your wife and kid burn? The guillotine was too good a fate for hellbound blasphemers like them!”
“I’m not angry. Donatien Gagne died with his family, even now his soul burns in the eternal torment of the agony of his family’s final moments. But Draihan rose from his ashes and exists only to right the church’s wrongs. And to kill it’s wrongdoers with extreme prejudice.”
“Then try!” the crucifer friar shouted as he lunged through the dissipating steam.
A wooden casket rose from the earth quickly enough to block the incoming attack. As the casket caught fire a Draihan’s skeleton stumbled out burning. The friar joyfully chopped it in half and saw that Draihan disappeared. He turned to the flaming coffin and realized the smoke was spreading faster than it should have. Through the smoke a white hand grasped the friar’s face and slammed him into the dirt. He cut forward and severed Draihan’s arm only for Draihan to gesture with his remaining arm. A chain shot out from the dirt and wrapped itself around the dominant arm of the Zweihänder. With his arm pinned the friar took out a dagger and plunged it into Draihan’s chest.
“You’re finished blasphemer!” The dagger sparked and ignited creating an open flame cauterizing Draihan’s chest. Draihan roared in pain and with his remaining hand pressed down upon the friar’s face with an open palm. Through the flames of his own immolation Draihan sneered “I’ve just begun.” Draihan squeezed and felt the soft pops as the friar’s face shattered and blood splashed up his arm with small droplets landing on his pale face. Draihan stood up as the friar wailed. Bone splinters had penetrated his eyes and the friar’s days of fighting were now behind him.
The dagger slipped out of his chest and the flames died down. Draihan’s torso was now barely intact and where his beating heart should be was a cavity of ashes spilling into the wind. Draihan looked for his arm and saw it had burned to ash down to the forearm. He looked at his stump and realized his shoulder had burned too. Any closer and it may have been a fatal wound. Kicking the Zweihänder away Draihan sighed and began to resurrect the tiny living beings that composed of his chest, arm, skin, bone, and muscles. As the friar contrinued wailing his tone changed from anger and surprise into terror.
“Calm yourself friar,” Draihan ordered as he monitored his arm’s regrowth. “There was never any way someone of your caliber could ever defeat a member of the Unholy 7.”
“What?!”
“I may have joined when I was too old to be a skilled necromancer but if I know one thing it’s suffering.” Draihan then used his newly restored arm to make a gesture and the ground collapsed in front of him. “So instead of mastering particular kinds of summons I barely mastered the basics before performing necromancy on myself to stay alive.” Draihan raised a hand and within the pit the earth erupted with dozens of snakes. The friar shook with fear unable to tell what precisely happened but his chain loosened. Draihan grabbed him by his collar and sat him on his knees at the edge of the pit.
“I’m going to let you go if you’ll do me a favor.”
“What’s that?!”
“When you see your compatriots in hell I want you to give them a message for me.”
“Oh god! Protect me from this malignancy and deliver me from evil!”
“Tell them next time to send a cardinal.” Draihan said and tossed the friar into a snakepit. Draihan walked away from the haunting echo of frantic shrieks and hisses with a new hideous scar where his arm was burned off and regrown.
***
The grand doors of St. Peter’s Basilica opened to reveal a red figure wearing a blood red cassock and matching biretta shadowed by the setting sun. Cardinal Della Rovere had just returned from settling a dispute between the Cardinals of the North and South. Indeed War and Finance made great bedfellows but also terrifying enemies when scorned. These days the Cardinal of the North had amassed tremendous power being the sole collector of taxes within the Holy Roman Empire. He could strangle the Pope himself with his purse strings if he so chose. War meanwhile was always looking for ways to waste money on conflict and preparation for further conflict.
The clergy inside St. Peter’s Basilica quietly scattered in Della Rovere’s presence as he strode forward with purpose for an urgent meeting with His Holiness, Pope Pious XXIII. The cardinal passed through checkpoint after checkpoint towards His Holiness. From simple clergy, to the Swiss Guards, to finally massive ogre like men donned in golden plate armor stood armed with versatile polearms ready to slaughter and die on His Holiness’s commands. These Papal Guards were colloquially known as “pitbulls”, handpicked orphans selected at a young age for their extraordinary size and strength. As they grew older their penises were removed and burned in a ceremony to commemorate their marriage to God. As this tradition evolved some went insane, to remedy this once they were fully grown their testicles were removed as well. Raging violent brutal guards that were absolute in their faith and loyalty to His Holiness, the pitbulls were perhaps the only clergymen a cardinal need fear shy of Abbess Faustina, the matriarch of the most powerful nun sect The Brides of God.
Within a golden greathelm with a line of sight impossibly small, a pitbull stared blankly at Cardinal Della Rovere and asked without a hint of reverence: “State your business with His Holiness.”
Della Rovere’s posh voice betrayed his highly educated background, “Cardinal Guiliano Della Rovere here to meet with His Holiness at his appointed hour.”
“For what purpose?”
“For the purpose of His Holiness’s service.”
“Arms?”
“Only this,” Della Rovere said as he took a small round toy out of his pocket.
“Your signature weapon?”
“Yes it is.”
“This item is registered with the grand inventory and is not unexpected. You are permitted to retain possession but any attempt to use it within the Papal Chambers and you will be subject to immediate execution. Is that understood?”
“Certainly brother. Certainly,” Della Rovere replied humbly. The twin guards reached for the door and opened it in synchronization. Stepping within the doors immediately shut with a piercing CLACK! and Della Rovere quickly stepped through the dark, empty living space and out to the balcony overlooking the piazza. His Holiness Pope Pious XXIII stood regally looking out at the bustling clergymen below.
His Holiness spoke with a gravelly tone that matched his considerable age, “How goes your travels Guiliano?”
“War and Finance are finally at peace.”
The pope chuckled at the thought. “Well then our prayers are answered. Bellies will be filled with food and not with steel and malice once more.”
“Just as the Holy God intended.”
“Yes. And how goes the other matter?”
Cardinal Della Rovere’s face turned pale and his voice grave, “Katharsis Merron is still at large Holy Father.”
“I’ve been told you found her home?”
“We think so Holy Father but it burned before we arrived.”
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“Any other leads I should know about?”
“Some travelers claimed to come across a boy, local. Some claimed he lived with her.”
“Oh?”
“As her son...”
Pious XXIII simmered in anger before replying, “Katharsis must be stopped. That woman would destroy this world and rebuild it as a necropolis in her own image.”
“Certainly your Holiness. There’s more.”
“Oh?”
“Her house was burned down. It appears that we were responsible.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Katharsis Merron has killed Cardinals before. It’s not out of the question that she could bring back the holiest of warriors to do her bidding, up to and including faking her death.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“None of us would’ve dared attack her home without the backing of at least three Cardinals. The fact that her home is gone without our knowing must mean that she did
it herself.”
“Katharsis Merron, if she’s using Cardinals she must be stopped. The mere notion she is using our holy flames against us is a direct threat to our existence. No other necromancer has ever succeeded in such a ploy.”
“Perhaps, Holy Father; we should turn our efforts to the boy. If Katharsis Merron truly had a child, she wouldn’t have without reason. The boy may hold the key to her plans.”
“What do you think Guiliano?”
“I think the boy is worth investigating until we get a better lead.”
“Take the boy into custody. We will question him together here at the Vatican.”
“I see Holy Father.”
“Do you suppose the child of Katharsis Merron is a threat?”
“We can only speculate at this point Holy Father.”
“That will be all Guiliano. I’ll look forward to your report within the week as to how you managed to reconcile War and Finance.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness.” Cardinal Della Rovere bowed and left the Pope at the balcony and quickly stole away, his stride increasing pace once he was outside of His Holiness’s earshot. Della Rovere passed by the pitbulls with barely a glance and quickly ducked within a confession box. There he broke down into a sobbing mess. His chest ached severely and his heart pounded like a hateful drummer. He believed God himself was calling him to judgement where he’d be cast into everlasting hell. He’d lied to the Pope. It wasn’t his first time. It wouldn’t be the last. And the guilt of his sin never got any easier.
He forced himself through sheer power of will to calm himself just a bit, used a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face, drank the hidden flask of wine kept for difficult confessions that he knew a local priest kept through their regular confessions. The man’s penchant for alcohol was truly a terrible affliction but in this moment the cool refreshing wine was a blessing. Realizing he’d survived another ordeal Della Rovere calmed down, replaced the half empty flask back under a hidden panel, composed himself, and disappeared into the night.
***
Pigs squealed in a frenzy. Ribold hated the damned things. Noisy, smelly, and vicious Müller’s pigs devoured everything in sight. When he wasn’t sanding his coffin or practicing carving with Müller’s son, Ribold practiced his necromancy on dead animals in the forest. When he was certain he could learn no more from one he’d send his little thralls to the pig pens where they devoured the undead carrion without care. Ribold had been heartbroken when a pig grasped his wandering crippled chicken in its jaws and devoured it in seconds. In his desperation to save the doomed bird Robold nearly lost his hand wrenching a single feather from the enraged pig’s maw.
Müller was up and around. Smoking from a wooden pipe he carved and preparing the mill. Most of the mill workers were day laborers or travelers. Most ordinary people didn’t want to live in a haunted forest surrounded by death worshippers so Müller’s workers rarely lasted and the ones who were there were probably running from a fate worse than death. Müller advised him to keep to himself, since men that desperate probably had done something horrible. Muller himself skinned people with his rough handshake and apparently loved to throw those who defied him into the pig pen to be eaten alive. Müller had explained that was the closest thing to excommunication the necromancers had. Animal fodder doesn’t have tombs built in their honor, and excrement merely washed away. Some necromancers however prided themselves in finding useful summons from the tiniest grains of ash or pining through piles of shit looking for proverbial gold.
***
Ribold found himself in a field of white lilies. On one side of the field the sun scorched the earth setting the flowers ablaze and choking out the sky in the dark shadows of smoke. Ribold fled the flames as fast as his little feet could carry him. On the other side of the white lily field stood a beautiful woman who smiled warmly at him. He dove into her arms and her embrace was as cold as a stream. Katharsis Merron caressed her little boy and as Ribold closed his eyes her hand gently wrapped around his throat and squeezed. Ribold panicked and gasped. His beloved mother strangled him with a vice grip. As he gazed into his mother’s eyes he realized the truth. The man atop him was not his mother. This wasn’t the lily field the church burned. He was in a musty stable and a grown man was drooling on him as he strangled Ribold.
As the dark room grew darker Ribold flailed unable to break the vice grip of this day laborer. His hand slammed into the earthen floor of the stable and his crippled chicken emerged from a wire cage that rose from the ground and fluttered wildly into his assailant’s arm. The man turned in confusion and Ribold kicked off the wall and managed to tear away from the man gasping wildly, feeling the blood surge through his neck and his heart pounded like a smith in a frenzy. The man grasped Ribold again and tossed him headfirst into the stable wall. Ribold’s head exploded in pain and felt blood trickling down. Ribold was so terrified that he couldn’t even think to talk before this man gut punched him with all of his might. Ribold collapsed to the floor and vomited. His every instinct to curl into a fetal position but his mind fought it knowing this man would kill him. The man kicked him in the gut and the excruciating pain finally made Ribold cry out. He screamed.
“I’ve been runnin from the inquisition for a long long time. Turns out you can only prey on boys if you’re a man of the cloth. Well, I’m just doing what that priest taught me!” The man tore off Ribold’s shirt and grasped a horse whip. “That’s it! Cry for me boy! In here only I can hear you!” Ribold reached out to the floor and the man lashed his hand. The stinging pain almost made him blackout. What the man couldn’t hear from Ribold’s shrieks of agony was that a small figure rose behind him. An undead fox leaped out and bit the man’s ankle. As he cried out Ribold quickly crawled towards the only exit. The man kicked wildly and the fox was flung against the wall. As the little undead beast collapsed several of its rotten teeth remained embedded in the man’s ankle. He turned outraged, “You think you can run from me you little shit! Goddamned necros like you need to be punished!”
Ribold crawled out the door and rose to his feet and clumsily staggered away. The man limped behind him and grasped a pitchfork. Ribold staggered to the barn door only to find it locked. He turned in terror to see the man behind him. The man snarled, “How about I pin you to this door. Then we can see what I can break first. Your body or your mind!”
“Wait! Please! I… I don’t know what you want!” Ribold said in a pained voice. Ribold was barely looking at the man but could see that his fox walking balanced on the stables leaping across from stable to stable.
“What I want? I want God to send ALL the priests to hell! Then I want him to wash me of my sins! And none of that shit is happening! You want to live right? That ain’t happening either!” As the man lunged at Ribold with his pitchfork Ribold’s fox landed on his shoulder and began using what teeth it had left to gnaw on the man’s ear. As he wailed in surprise he missed Ribold and Ribold ducked past and began to climb a ladder to the loft. The man dropped the pitchfork and reaching back grasped the small fox by the scruff of its neck. As it squealed an unholy squeal the man grasped it’s posterior and ripped the little undead animal in two. Tossing it’s quivering pieces aside he turned and quickly ascended the ladder after Ribold. When the man reached the loft of the barn he couldn’t find Ribold.
“Where are you at boy? I killed your little thralls! I’m gonna kill you! Go ahead and hide boy! I love the anticipation! I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I find you!” The man could see the hayloft doors hadn’t been opened. In the boy’s condition if he jumped he’d probably never get up again. Still the man moved toward the hayloft door to cut off any chance of escape. As he looked wildly around the loft for any boy sized hiding places he missed something. As he approached the hayloft door there was a set of farming tools mounted on a wall. One of them was missing. The man heard a howl as the little undead fox howled with all his might. Footsteps sounded behind him. Good, the man thought, if he’s fighting back than this is the climax! He’s given up running. I smack him down and watch the light drain from his face! As the man turned Ribold ran straight at him and slammed the blunt metal edge of a scythe into him propelling him backwards. The man slammed through the doors of the hayloft and landed in a heap outside at Müller’s feet.
“What the hell is this?!” Müller asked incredulously. When the laborer looked up to see Ribold still standing in the hayloft holding the scythe he pointed and shrieked, “That fucking boy tried to kill me!”
“That so Otto? Ribold! Get down here now!” Ribold carefully lowered himself from the hayloft ledge and dropped down the rest of the way. “Why the hell didn’t you use the door?!”
“He chained it up sir...” Ribold said exhausted.
“Chained it up? Chained up my door in my barn?!” Müller shook the barn door unsuccessfully and heard chains rattle before turning to face Otto. “Otto, why’s the boy beaten within a half inch of his life?”
“He attacked me. It was self defense.”Otto screached knowing full well Müller’s reputation.
Ribold stepped forward and began to shout when Müller grabbed his mouth and pushed him back.
“Self defense you say?” Müller said incredulously.
“He summoned those unholy creatures to attack me in my sleep!”
“Did he now?”
“I fought my way through them and then hit him to try and make them stop.”
“That so?”
“Yes Herr Müller.”
“Then tell me why would he send his squirrel to wake me up in the middle of the night?”
“What?”
Out from Muller’s open shirt popped an undead squirrel seemingly nestled in Müller’s chest hair. “I had my doubts about you Otto. But I never imagined you’d try and kill a child.”
“Wait! That boy is a killer! He tried to kill me!” Otto shrieked.
“Ribold here is scheduled to be fed to the pigs in a few days. And you Otto have tried to take my beloved pigs’ food.”
“To hell with you!” Otto raged. “You’re just an old farmhand and a half dead boy! Why I ought to-”
A tree branch penetrated Otto from the back. He cried out in pain and was lifted from the ground by a tree growing behind him. Müller turned to Ribold, “So, since you’re a necromancer you should kill him and make him a thrall right?” He cocked his head towards the scythe. “Take that it and end him.”
Ribold took the scythe and walked over to the impaled man thrashing about trying to free himself. He stared into the desperate man’s eyes and shook with anger and rage. As he raised the scythe to angle it around the condemned man’s neck he dropped the scythe and started sobbing. “I can’t. I want to but I can’t!”
Otto laughed hysterically, “I was right about you! You’re just a lamb! Remember this boy! Lambs exist to be slaughtered! If you’re not man enough to swing at me in this state, you’ll never be a man! Even if you grow up you’ll still be a scared little bitch!” Mueller gestured and the tree branch grew more branches within his body. Otto screamed as his body contorted from wood growing within him and Mueller walked him over to the pig pen, his tree thrall rumbling and thrashing upon its root legs. Müller looked at the tear stricken Ribold, “Maybe you’re right boy. Your first shouldn’t be with someone like this.” Müller’s tree branch shriveled and snapped dropping a bloody screaming Otto into the pig pen where the massive swine fell upon him in a feeding frenzy. Ribold could see through the fence Otto’s last moments as he was torn apart in the jaws of swine. He vomited again, traumatized by his first life or death battle and so disgusted watching a man die for the first time. Up until now Ribold lived a fairly quiet gentle life. His body would heal without many scars but in his mind he knew he’d never be the same.