A priest. The demon wanted a damned priest for his new body.
Kurtis didn’t trust the demon entirely, but with not much to go on in this world, he saw little choice. It only made sense that Nanalia would send word for a guide. If the demon’s sickened state really was a ruse, then he played the part flawlessly.
They left early the next morning. A crimson sun bloomed in grim triumph as the clouds finally receded. Nothing in its blood-red, stained form suggested a sanguine future for the day. Kurtis certainly shared in its somber outlook.
Kurtis’s defiance and force of will over years merely brought a brief victory with no reprieve.
He stared at the sun as he and Diolgess reached the top of a winding hill that led to a shallow chasm. A line of trees reached to the other side. Plenty of deadly choices for crossing. He tested one of the pale trunks that acted as a makeshift bridge and carefully made his way across. The progress was slow since Diolgess in his old, withered body found even the slightest incline a challenge.
He greeted the sun with an empathetic salute as he waited halfway across the bridge. You and me both, pal. Thanks for the light.
As they traveled, the elm trees grew scarce. Kurtis thought at first it might have been due to the people in a nearby village that Diolgess mentioned. He realized this wasn’t the case. The stumps were not flat from precise cuts. The rugged bases looked torn, as if a giant went berserk and punched the trees into submission until they collapsed. Much of the land was blackened in places as well.
Diolgess broke the silence. “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“The emptiness?” Kurtis assumed.
The demon gave Kurtis what he assumed was an approving look. “Close. Specifically, it’s permanence.”
“And what might cause this?”
Diolgess stopped to rest on one of the exposed stumps. He clutched the chest of his old body and took a few ragged breaths before answering. “Life itself should not understand the concept of fear. But, as you can see, it seems that life chose to abandon this place.”
Kurtis remained silent. The whole explanation seemed absurd and unreasonably cryptic. But then he thought back to his time in the wasteland and the forest. The deer and other animals avoided certain areas. Nothing resided in the forest that bordered the wasteland full of permanent death. The dead land and sections of forest – they erected invisible barriers which indicated safety and danger. Flimsy palisades could never hold back death for long though.
“What have you seen, Diolgess?” Kurtis asked.
Despite the broad question, Diolgess understood the true inquiry. “The sin that is science. The ignorance of history. The shunning of man’s self.”
Diolgess rose from the stump and rested a supportive hand on his hip. “But telling you more would prove counterproductive. You must see for yourself. And trust me, you will see soon. We are almost to the church. You must enter on your own.”
He made sense. An old woman somehow surviving in this dead land, even accompanied by an able-bodied guard, might seem implausible. Two souls residing in the body were all that provided it enough resilience to function.
Kurtis followed the possession demon.
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The decrepit cathedral sat nestled in a receding coil of rock extending upwards into an overhanging cliff. The narthex was exposed with two holes on either side that replaced the shattered windows. A barred oak door stood as the only defense for the inner nave.
Kurtis brought his gaze upward and observed the spire extending off-center to the east. The wood skeleton was exposed on one side and threatened to collapse from the canted stone on the opposite section. The piece of architecture that once distinctly graced the pinnacle of the structure was no more than a broken stump.
Kurtis ascended the crumbling steps leading to the porch area and noted the mud-stained rug leading to the right as he cleared the landing. A statue hugged the far wall under an arch etched with faded symbols. The statue of marble took the appearance of a woman in prayer. Deep cut lines ran down her cheeks, scarring the blank face. The lifeless eyes managed to somehow convey a silent pain.
He crouched before the placard that was purposefully covered by the rug. Kurtis lifted it just enough to read the inscription: 'The Two Pray.' This original writing was crossed out by a crude, jagged line carved by a short weapon. Indelicately cut beneath the marred title was: 'First Monster.'
Kurtis attempted to interpret the meaning behind the original message’s annulment. He felt the anger and harsh acceptance from within the novel words. But with no frame of reference, Kurtis had no way of understanding anything beyond the emotions.
Strange. Kurtis found himself engrossed with the statue and its intended meaning.
Two? Who is the second? He tore his gaze away when he heard the faint crunch of pebbles at the base of the stairs.
A commanding shout followed, “Halt! State your business.”
Kurtis raised his hands and observed an armored man standing at the bottom of the stairs, spear at the ready. Soon two more men arrived in similar attire, one wielding a broadsword, the other casually twirling a one-handed axe. He also heard the strain of a pulled bowstring somewhere near the entrance to the cathedral. Kurtis attempted to discern the source, but the archer hid well in the shadows.
“I am a simple traveler,” Kurtis shouted to the men. “I merely seek shelter for the night. I did not know anyone resided in these parts.”
“And men don’t usually travel here,” the man with the axe said. He flashed a side of teeth in an open smirk.
Kurtis responded with the judiciously prepared answer from Diolgess, “My caravan was attacked to the northeast near the border of the wastelands.” Not exactly what they discussed, but he made sure to leave a bit of information out as bait.
The men glanced at each other uncertainly. The man with the crude spear tightened his grip and whispered to the sword-wielder. It was audible enough for Kurtis to pick out a few select words.
“Elves…told you…bolder…”
The warrior with the sword motioned for the other two men to follow as he climbed the stairs. Before he reached the top, he asked in an even tone, “Elves, friend?”
Kurtis nodded. “Aye. I believe so. They attacked swiftly in the night.”
“Magic-wielding bastards,” the big axe man growled. He spit over the side of the steps.
The one with the sword, who seemed to be the leader, ran a hand through his grizzled beard and gave Kurtis a once-over. His eyes lingered on the long sword strapped to Kurtis’s waist for an extra second. His face didn’t betray any emotion until his cursory inspection was finished.
“Were you part of the escort?” he asked.
Kurtis shook his head. “No, I stripped the armor and weapon from one of the bodies.”
The man seemed satisfied and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Be at ease. You are among friends now. All those who seek respite are welcome.” He led Kurtis to the entrance of the church. “Let us fetch you some bread and drink. Father Saldo will wish to speak with you.”
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A motley group of warriors sat scattered amongst the pews. Some lounged with helmet visors covering their eyes and cloaks sheltering them from the breezes that managed to slip through the haphazardly boarded windows. A few sat rigid at Kurtis’s approach with hands resting on weapons. Soon all glanced up curiously at the man in unimpressive, copper-toned armor.
Kurtis spared them a curt nod as he passed in an attempt to assuage any unease.
As he scanned the pews, his eyes settled on a solitary individual sitting a generous distance from the rest of the company. A woman with raven-black hair that brushed just past her shoulders was writing in a leather-bound notebook. She wore a dark battlegown that covered light chainmail with a short cloak tied to her collar. The outfit obscured every trace of skin. The battlegown only reached to her knees, but her skin-tight leggings made up for it. A silver ornament in the shape of some strange instrument hung from her belt and cradled her thigh. Perhaps a harp, Kurtis guessed.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
It wasn’t until he passed with Father Saldo that she looked up to regard him. A slight twitch of the mouth was the only sign of acknowledgment. She went back to her notebook.
“Even the impoverished might extend sympathy if they were to gaze upon us,” Father Saldo said as he led Kurtis to a heavy wooden door behind the altar. He wrung his old, sun-spotted hands nervously over his chest. “Our vow of poverty might have sufficed, but my heart is pained by the knowledge that we have so little to provide those in need. Ever since the bandit attack…”
“You receive few travelers in these parts?” Kurtis asked.
The wrinkles on Father Saldo's face deepened. “A few here and there. Most of the refugees travel north towards the Velsin Bowl, just outside the elves’ domain. But some still fear the stories of the magic they wield.”
“I see…”
A battered organ sitting behind the altar seized Kurtis’s attention. Its pipes bent down in submission to the debris scattered around it. A large hole in the wall above it was the source.
Curious, Kurtis thought. Bandits who truly abhor religion?
In the room behind the altar stood another statue of the woman from outside. This time she was leaning on one knee, elbow propped to one side, with her opposite hand reaching down for something the statue’s creator neglected to sculpt. Embedded in the walls were stone bowls with holes cut a few inches above. A lever and small switch jutted out.
Father Saldo bowed and gestured to the bowls. “Please, have as much as you need. Surely, you were deprived on your journey.”
Kurtis considered the bowls with a bit of perplexity. Truth be told, he didn’t crave any fluids. But it would seem strange if a human turned down such an offer after traveling a desolate wasteland.
He decided to make a show of it. He turned the switch, pulled the lever and feigned a look in his eyes of desperation and uncertainty. He cupped his hands and took several deep swigs of water followed by a few in slow, methodical repetition as if savoring it. A part of him did. The cold spread through his belly and soothed him. Flames harbored by his materialized soul calmed. Kurtis confirmed, based on the fluids and his meals from days passed, that he still retained a human part of himself that appreciated relief through sustenance and refreshment.
“Rest as long as you need, my son.” Father Saldo bowed and cupped the gold chain hanging from his neck. “Thou art in the House of the Lord. Take comfort.”
Kurtis felt a moment of unease as the priest bowed, but the final words dismissed the feeling.
The Hell Knight’s mind cackled. How amusing.
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Kurtis found his man. Not quite a man in stature, but well enough into his years to know when a woman wasn't interested in his advances. The young man only approached the reserved female once with clear peer pressure from his comrades. The other men continued with their incessant attempts at striking up conversation with the woman in black, despite the shabby efforts of those before them.
Now the lad just sat staring at the back of the pew in front of him where a carved portion once held a series of books. Every so often he fidgeted as if a shiver crept up his back. He tapped nervous fingers along the handle of his sword.
Kurtis began to question what sin this man committed that made him ripe for possession of a demon. He also didn't seem like a priest, as Diolgess claimed, but his description discounted any of the other men in the church. His blonde hair was shaped in a bowl cut with a scraggled bald spot growing in the center of his scalp like Father Saldo's. Heavy bags under his eyes almost obscured his true age.
Kurtis recalled what Diolgess said the evening of their first meeting, "Sometimes it is not about what we do, but what we don’t do."
So the man had seen something and done nothing about it. Was that truly a crime worthy of great sin?
For all Kurtis knew, his abrupt lessons on demons and Diolgess’s words may well be an extensive fallacy. He was determined to kill that part of himself – the part that questioned everything when he practically understood nothing.
Kurtis heard the creak of the double oak doors at the entrance to the church. The leader with the broadsword entered and ran his eyes over the men. He settled on Kurtis and approached without hesitation. Kurtis noted how the man’s hand on his sword side swung closer to his body near the sheath. A true, disciplined warrior. Different from the other men who came from bandit gangs and ragtag mercenary groups.
This man doesn't fit here, he thought.
“I hope your condition is at least somewhat mended,” the leader said.
Kurtis nodded. “Aye. I thank you. It’s a pleasant surprise to receive such hospitality.”
“Some still believe in their fellow man.” He gestured next to him. “May I?”
“By all means.”
He sat a short ways down the pew from Kurtis. His mood soured as he observed another man from the rowdy group attempt conversation with the woman in black. Her expression still didn’t shift in the slightest, but it was apparent her words instilled a more permanent effect this time. Some of the men were clearly demoralized. Kurtis ventured that the pulled punches of her previous words now came full force.
The leader sighed and ran a hand over his shaved head. “Men give in to their baser instincts I suppose. At least they have the sense of remaining verbal and not resulting to more, well, vulgar means of persuasion.” A moment of realization crossed his features. “Ah, but I forget. My apologies. My name is Carthrin. Once a captain in Haven. Now, this unruly band of thugs.” He chuckled at the cruel irony.
Kurtis narrowed his eyes at the specific information concerning status.
“'Once a captain?’” Kurtis pressed. He let the innocent curiosity creep into his voice.
Carthrin allowed himself a humorless grin. “Aye. Merely a few months ago. Presumed dead after a battle with an Anskariin tribe.”
“My sympathies,” Kurtis said with as much sincerity he could muster.
Carthrin seemed like a decent man from the start. He took up the accommodations of the church and provided it with pure generosity. No doubt this man of war had difficulties acclimating to the idea of providing succor even to those who might bear ill will, but he did so graciously as Kurtis experienced.
“What keeps you from returning?” Kurtis asked.
Carthrin looked up at the broken ceiling and folded his arms. “I’d be lying if I said it was to repay my debt to Father Saldo. A journey back to Haven is impossible without a full squad of trained men. Hellish creatures have taken up residence. Even so, I suppose it’s a good enough excuse.”
Kurtis clasped his hands and observed the men who gave up on their feeble pursuit. Now they were deep in merry discussion about some other abject topics. Unfortunately, the tone shifted drastically as one of them spouted a number of expletives to no one in particular. Kurtis recognized him as the axe-wielder from earlier.
His face contorted into a bitter sneer when another man made some belittling comment. It didn’t take much more. He was up on his feet and his fist connected with the other man’s jaw in half a second. The fellow sitting next to him hooked his arm under an armpit to restrain him. He received an elbow to his cheek for the trouble.
The first man took the opportunity, seeing that the furious axe warrior opened himself up. One hand wouldn’t be enough to stop a crazed charge. He barreled into him and they tumbled over the pew and knocked the one over behind it. Three more men joined in the fray just for the sake of it. It was a convenient excuse to vent pent up frustration and boredom.
Carthrin sighed. “Hells. Not again.”
A weak, exasperated smile formed, and he rose from his seat. “Apologies. The title of ‘captain’ is simply meant as the ‘voice of reason.’” He strode off to break up the violent scuffle.
Father Saldo had already arrived and was pleading with the men to respect the house of his lord.
It took another full two minutes to end the fighting.
“Fuck the lot of you!” the axe-wielder spat a glob of blood on the floor (to Father Saldo’s dismay). “Sit in this rotting house and tend it for your dead god then!”
Everyone backed away at this sudden outburst. Some of them gave each other uneasy glances and watched expectantly for Father Saldo's reaction. The priest clutched at his chest where the necklace obscured under his garments.
The crazed man pointed a shaky finger at Saldo. “Here you sit, claiming to be the servant of a god who blew up the whole fucking world. I know what you-“ His head suddenly jerked and the words caught in his throat. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as he started to fall forward. Carthrin caught his limp body in one arm and eased him to the floor.
Behind them stood the archer. His arms were frozen in place after the quick strike dealt by his yew bow. The other men parted as he glanced around with cool grey eyes. Kurtis noticed the green cowl over his mouth move but couldn’t make out the mumbled words. Judging by the looks on the other men’s faces, they didn’t seem to have a clue either.
Carthrin nodded his thanks to the archer and pointed to the young man still standing stricken amongst the pews. “You there. Assist with taking him to his chambers. Chain him up until he cools down.”
The young man only managed a stiff nod and went to assist the archer with the unconscious brute.
Kurtis rose from his seat and watched as they disappeared through another door to the side of the altar. Carthrin focused his attention on those who remained. He didn’t speak in the commanding tone of a man that once held a position of respect over others. But they listened and visibly relaxed.
Next to them, Father Saldo reached into his black vestment and clasped the gold chain around his neck. He pressed it against his chest and made a trembling sign with the other hand. He whispered a few words and then replaced the chain back within his collar.
Kurtis felt his unease from earlier was now justified. The chain around the priest’s neck was bare.
A coincidence? he wondered. Perhaps it was all that remained of his coveted icon. The motion might simply be out of habit.
Perhaps not...maybe...
The thought cut off abruptly as a sudden pain flared in his head. He lurched forward and felt blindly in front of him to grasp the pew for support. The back of his eyes pulsed as he struggled to stiffen his body.
Kurtis recognized it. The pain of recollection. He'd felt it when his memories fought desperately to be known during his transformation in Hell.
His mind's eye conjured a blurred image surrounded by tendrils of darkness. The shape of a cross flashed across his vision. A statue depicting a man with long hair, arms spread wide, with his hands nailed to the wooden cross. An exposed wound in his side dribbled fresh blood despite being of stone.
Behind the cross stood a figure wearing a hooded robe with an ancient spear in hand. The appendages protruding from the handle clacked together as if they were living things. Kurtis recognized him: The Spectator. Never would Kurtis ever forget the one who inflicted the greatest agony upon him.
The vision flashed from his mind as quickly as it arrived when The Spectator's glowing white smile appeared within the hood.
Kurtis fought the urge to rest a hand against his temple. He kept his breathing in check and ignored the cold sweat beading on his brow. He pushed himself away from the pew and made his way to the oak doors on deceptively steady feet. He didn’t want to betray his emotions to any who might elect to regard him.
Kurtis pushed one of the doors open and hesitated for a split-second. Just out the corner of his eye, as the faint light trickled in, he saw the woman in black staring at him.