This story first appeared in schlock.co.uk

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“‘Blessed are those that reside here,’” Castus read by the light of the priest’s mace. 

Pileto, one of the two Queen’s Own archers sent on the expedition, snickered at his back. “Are they just as blessed when they’re turned to ash? Blessed in the dust? Blessed when they’re swept up?”

“Blessed enough to be able to avoid the king’s wrath for as long as they have.” He smacked the face of his warhammer into his palm. There was no subtlety to the weapon. It was crushing. Visceral. He wanted to feel the blow when it was struck. 

He had long come to understand that his brother was gone, and he had lost him to these strange people of the woods, although it did nothing to sate his anger. It was a feeling shared across the whole of his invading party. Each had lost someone to the mad cult, which was precisely the reason they were chosen for the task. They were the kinds that wouldn’t retreat.

Pileto ran her fingers over the sign; old, battered wood, the craftsmanship shoddy. “Is it written in blood?” She squinted and leaned in closer to it. “Looks like it to me.”

Sau and Kamilar came to her side, bending down with hands on knees to see it with her, metal and knees cracking and shifting in tandem. Each one was built like a warhorse, and carried no less armour. Their old, weary eyes gave a closer look, and Kamilar rubbed a finger over it. “Think it’s just berries,” Sau said with a chuckle.

“Still don’t like it much. These woods… something’s not right in them,” Kamilar added.

The priest gave leave to the light at the end of his mace, and the night became black as pitch again. Castus beckoned them forward while still urging quiet. They didn’t need the suggestion; each one of the seven could hear their own heartbeat over their quiet steps through the foliage.

“Another signpost,” Castus whispered. He motioned for the priest who lit his mace again. “‘All are welcome in this fleeting place’, it says.”

The priest - Radian, as all priests of the order are named - freed the light again. “I don’t know why we’re reading these. False prophecies! To even read them…” In spite of the dark, they could see he shuddered.

Pileto only laughed at him. “And how do you know your prophecies are that much better?”

“Blasphemer!” the priest whispered. “To speak of the Radiance that way, such… ingratitude. Insolence!” The harshness of his voice reminded Pileto of her youth, quieted by priests and threatened with burns for making such claims in the Bastions of Light.

“Quiet,” urged Castus. “If we’re seeing signs, we’re close, and if we’re close, there’ll be scouts. Silence is imperative. They’ve changed their position three times this month, and if they so much as hear a sound they’ll pack up and run off again.” He closed his eyes and breathed out deeply. “We’ve all lost someone in there. Let’s do right by them.”

Castus waited for the nods of agreement and counted heads again. The two archers, Pileto and Dreo. The priest. The old guard, Sau and Kamilar. And…

“Where’s Normar?”

The priest shook his head. The archers spat. The older men kept the same worried expression they always seemed to have. Each crouched lower, Sau and Kamilar doing the best their armour and age would allow. Dreo nocked an arrow swiftly, naturally, like a comet streaking across the night sky. 

A slight shifting in the leaves to the north. “Wind? A rabbit?” Dreo whispered to her sister. Pileto only shook her head.

A dark figure, silhouetted in what little light there was, emerged from the bushes. Pileto drew her arrow as well, and they both locked on the target. Castus glanced at Sau and Kamilar, and their knees were shaking with the pressure of keeping low. The figure advanced closer. Pileto looked to Castus, searching for permission to release, promising in a glance that the risks in friendly fire were much less punishing than allowing an enemy in their midst. Castus hesitated, not yet willing. Something had to break.

“Normar!” Radian said in the same reprimanding whisper he had employed before. 

“Yeah!” the figure whispered back. Pileto and Dreo lowered their bows, perhaps with a tinge of disappointment. Normar could see just enough to tell that they did. “Hey - arrows, really? - I said I was off to take a piss! Kam, I told you-”

“Keep your voice down!” Castus scolded.

“Didn’t say a word to me,” Kamilar said. 

“We’re the same side, by the Radiance if we’re killing our own because we can’t bloody guess at who’s there-”

“Keep your voice down!” Castus demanded more forcefully.

“-then we’re going to be dead by the time the light breaks over the horizon. You can’t-”

Another figure sprang from the bushes, not far from where Normar continued on his tirade. He was dressed in little more than a sack, no shoes on his dirty feet, even his dagger old and rusted, but no less deadly. Yet there was something strange about him, like he wasn’t  comfortable in his discomfort. His hair was still coiffed, or at least there was an attempt for it to be. 

“Who are you?” he asked, whispering as well, as if he didn’t want to disturb the forest’s silence with his call. It was strange, sometimes, speaking loudly in a quiet place. Why he didn’t scream out to his allies and alert them to the party’s presence was lost on them, but good fortune. Perhaps because to do so would ensure not only their destruction, but his own.

“Easy, lad,” Sau said in the gentle manner of a father. “I don’t know how well you can see in this dark, but if you’re like me, it’s not that well at all. Now, if you haven’t seen, there are two archers with me. They’re Queen’s Own - no better out there. You move that dagger, even so much as to scratch your nose with it, and… look, I’ve seen too much of what’ll happen to you in my time.”

He hesitated. Then, he started shaking his head. “I don’t want to die. Not here. I just want to die by the dagger. Let me have that. Please. I know you’re here to stop that, but we just want to pass this life in the way we choose.” More than just his head began to shake. “Can you not just let us have that? Can you not just let us die the way we wish?”

“Turn it on yourself then,” Normar said, straining his head upwards to avoid the sharp tip of the blade still held at his throat. 

“Not this one!” he snapped. “The dagger. The dagger. I just want to go where it sends me, that’s all, and I just want you to leave so my friends can accompany me, I just want to-”

There was the sound of a gong, strange and incongruous to the nature they were surrounded by. The lower half of the man’s head burst. Scraps of flesh and teeth landed in the dirt around them. He spasmed, and the blade held at Normar’s throat pulled across, drawing a deep gash across his neck. Both collapsed, the newcomer dead the moment the sound crashed through the silence of the forest, and with Normar sputtering in vain.

The priest was at Normar’s side at once, whispering the promises and holding his hands. To his credit, as blood poured from the wound and red mist from Normar’s mouth landed upon him, he didn’t flinch; he continued his quiet assurances of peace and continued on. “Be guided by the Radiance and follow it, let it bathe you in its glow, its calm, its beauty. Be still. Let it take you to the next, where all is light, and the darkness of this world is but a fleeting memory. The purging fires glow hot only briefly, and the pain, all pain, cauterised in time and perpetuity.” The assurances were punctuated by the sounds of desperate wheezing and coughing. 

The moment his breathing stopped, the priest took out his mace, beckoned the light to come to it, and rested it gently on Normar’s forehead. He held it there for a time, and no one spoke until he drew the light back and stood up. After a few short moments, the body burst into flame, dissolving into ash in a matter of moments.

“Didn’t have to do that,” Sau said coldly. No one responded. “Priest. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Am I not to give him the sacrament?”

“Not that. With the other lad. The one you slaughtered.”

“There was no other option,” Radian replied.

“We could’ve reasoned with him. He wanted something, we could’ve worked with that. Foolish,” Sau spat.

“There’s no reasoning with these lunatics. They’ve lost their minds. Sooner or later, he would’ve begun to scream, or shout, or some other nonsense, and there would’ve been a hundred of his mad kin upon us in a heartbeat. Remember why we’re here. This is no land of rationality. It’s a land of lunacy.”

“The reason why we’re here is we’ve each got someone in there. You’re going and ripping jaws off heads when it could be one of ours we’re trying to save!”

“Would be a pity, then. Best to let me know in advance.”

Kamilar furrowed his brow, but kept silent. The priest was moving on now, and there was no arguing with Radian - any Radian, really.

Sau shook his head. “Doesn’t feel right.” He looked down and saw the shattered remnants of a jaw, a scattering of teeth lodged in the upper half that didn’t take the brunt of the attack. “To go in that manner… doesn’t feel right. Now we’ve gone and slaughtered some… hmm.” He turned to the priest. “Could you shine your light on this one?”

The priest obliged. It was a dreadful sight, and even Kamilar, hardened by decades of soldiering, winced and looked away. “Hmm,” Sau mumbled again. “I knew him. A jeweller, back at the capital. Wealthy.”

“And what matter is that?” Castus asked.

“It’s curious, is all. To leave all that.” He breathed out deeply, and in the faint light of the moon he could see his breath. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he said again to the priest.

–

“‘Eternity awaits’, it says.” Castor shook his head.

“Feels like that goes without saying,” Pileto added. “What other option is there? Stay dead for a time, spring back up? What’s your religion say about all that, priest?”

“Our religion, if your oaths have meant anything, archer.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You say ‘archer’ like it’s a bad thing.”

“My role is to save, yours is to destroy.” He held up a hand, even though they could hardly see it. “Before you say it - I know our role here. There’ll be blood. I already took one life. But we’re here to save them from this dagger and their priests’ false promises, and if one falls to save a dozen, I’ll do it. I only hope to save as many as we can.” The priest turned his back on her. “You’re in for the blood of it.”

“Blessed when they’re turned to ash…” she mumbled. 

–

They made good progress through the woods. Distantly, they caught the pleasing scent of roasting meat, and whenever they found their way to a hill, they could see the lights of small fires off ahead, their orange glow the only illumination in the whole wide expanse. 

Instead of growing complacent, their footsteps only softened. The night seemed to grow quieter the further into the woods they went, and the unmistakable feeling of being watched haunted them at every turn. While none spoke openly of their fears, they all knew the stories, each familiar with the rumours. The king had sent contingents of soldiers on several occasions now, sometimes many, sometimes few; the many wouldn’t find their quarry and the few wouldn’t return. The king felt it was about striking a balance in their numbers. To the boots on the ground, it felt like being thrown to the butcher on a hope and a whim.

The nerves began to grow too strong, and Castus could sense it. Fear has long been a companion of the dark, and it was in no short supply this night. Kamilar and Sau looked perhaps the worst for it, in spite of being the longest standing soldiers. Truthfully, it was because they were the longest standing soldiers. When one sees another man gutted, the romance of battle tends to wash away. He called them together at the foot of another signpost.

“Steady yourselves. We’re nearly at the target.”

“What’s that one say?” Sau asked, trying to mask the shaking tenor of his voice. 

The priest lit the sign and read it. “‘Paradise. You are welcome to it.’” He leaned in closer, seeing there were carved words written beneath. “There’s a little more. ‘Those set for the gallows. Those that are lost. Sick. Wealthy.’” He snorted. “Surprised they can write. Educated, yet foolish enough to believe this nonsense.”

“They take anyone,” Castus added. “They don’t seem to care who. The condemned and the rich alike.”

“Sisters,” Dreo and Pileto added darkly together.

“Loved ones,” Kamilar added to Sau’s agreement.

“Don’t seem to care about death. Just the means of reaching it.” Castus shook his head, long strands of dark hair swaying back and forth in front of his eyes. “Can’t see how they’ve survived this long, being that focussed on the end.”

“Want to drag in more,” Dreo said. Wind ripped through the trees just then, shaking the leaves and bones alike. “Really believe in this, don’t they…”

“Idiots,” the priest scoffed. “Come on, then, we’d best take care of them quickly before they steal any more souls. We’re close now. No sense in getting cold.” Castus noticed before he closed out his light that he shivered with the last words. It wasn’t cold enough to warrant it, and his vestments were heavy and warm.

They set off again, this time sending the two archers out forward. Lighter on their feet, they’d spot anyone before they spotted them, and all the rest of the party saw were the occasional shadows that they could only pray were allies. They hoped the knowledge of having such skilled trackers would give them the benefit of peace of mind, but the ghostly silhouettes of figures in the trees, likely a friend but unable to say so with certainty, only served to heighten the nerves. 

Castus was glad they were as close as they were. The breathing of Kamilar and Sau, the party’s might and muscle, was growing heavier with each passing step. They weren’t young, but they weren’t old enough to be weary from the trek - it was the coming battle that was setting them into a different state. It wasn’t what he had expected from them, old veterans, the kind he aspired to be when he joined the military. He was sold on stories of glory and bloodlust. The two old dogs that followed him, veterans bloodied as any, seemed more concerned with saving their own skin than adding a tally to their victories.

“By the Radiance, look at that…” the priest whispered as he crested a hill before the others, giving a sightline of the enemy encampment. “Barbarism. It’s all… barbarism.”

“What were you expecting?” Pileto asked, the smirk not visible but felt just the same. “It’s a makeshift camp out in a forest, dogged by the king’s army. Not enough flowers?”

“What draw is there?” the priest continued, aghast. If he heard her, he didn’t show it. “What guides these people? There’s no glory here. It’s so…” He scanned the horizon, the perch just a hundred yards from their destination. “It’s empty. There’s not a temple, not a sign of the greatness of their god, there’s…” With a shake of his head, he found himself at a loss for words.

“It’s the flowers. Not enough flowers for this one,” Pileto mocked.

He held a hand over his mouth. “I can’t understand it. I’ll be with the Radiance before I do.”

“Don’t need to understand it to put an end to it,” Kamilar said. “A lesson we’ve learned all too well.”

“Aye,” Sau agreed. 

–

Castus sent Dreo and Pileto to scout ahead and garner any information about where they held the dagger. They sat in silence, the priest daring to stand, smoothing his vestments, gaping in awe at how little there was to see. He’d mumble now and then, something about how they could leave so much, how they could have so much light only to abandon it, and after some time the rest of the party just stopped listening. Their focus was on the calm, quiet camp before them and the dangers that lie within. 

In spite of their tension, the archers still managed to surprise them upon their return. Each of those that remained gave an embarrassing, not so subtle start at the sound of Pileto’s voice.

“Where would you be without us?” she asked. Her tone was chipper, but her face was grim, at least for what little they could see of it. The Queen’s Own didn’t find their way into the elite by taking their tasks lightly.

“Just report,” Castus demanded. 

Dreo stepped forward. “There’s only one significant building, with a number of followers drifting in and out. They don’t seem to be carrying any supplies, nor are they staying for long. It must be some… do these people have rituals?” No one answered. “Well then. From what I can tell, they’re still unsuspecting. If there’s an ambush waiting for us, they'd have to inform the whole camp. I can’t see that happening. Not one seems out of sorts. There’s always one.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Good,” Castus said with a nod. “Good. The building - guards?”

“One. There’s a gap on a second floor, a single scout. Likely an archer, but I couldn’t spot his bow. They thrive on mobility. We won’t find resistance so spur of the moment.”

“Simple, then. Slay the archer, storm the building, take the dagger, and break off into the night heading east before we make our way back south.”

“Too simple,” Kamilar suggested. “They’ve been avoiding a king’s army for months, and we stroll right in? Something’s not right.”

“I’m not about to complain about good fortune.”

“And the followers in the… church, if you call it that?” Sau asked.

“Their lives are forfeit. If they’re to live, they’ll alarm the encampment, and we’ll have a battle on our hands. We don’t have the numbers.”

“Slaying civilians…” Kamilar muttered.

“Better that than leave their souls to rot,” the priest spat back. “It’s a mercy, in the end. Savages,” he mumbled, looking over the furs and hastily chopped wood. “Not a pleasant building in the lot. And they think this is the path to salvation, when their god has given them nothing.”

Castus was growing weary of the musings on the task at hand. The plan was anything but simple to get here, full of feints in the inner sanctums back home, dodging the outsiders who were seemingly always having someone in the know. They were a people that seemed to pride themselves on knowledge of the enemy, but for once, they hoped, they were left in the dark of the king’s plans. It left the final task to be surprisingly simple. All that was left now was to break in and take what had to be taken.

“Come on, then,” Castus urged. “As long as you’re not afraid to do what you have to do,” he said to the group, all the while glaring at Kamilar. “Dreo, Pileto - draw up to the tree line and remove the archer. The rest of us; follow to the door, pry it open, and we step inside. Kamilar and Sau, you’re to stay there and hold it. No one through, no one out. Dreo and Pileto are to take the old archer’s position in his perch, now that he won’t be using it. Stand guard while we secure the dagger. If we can break it there, good. If not, we’re going to have to slip out and return it to the king.”

Nods from everyone, barely perceptible. There wasn’t much to follow; storm in, take the dagger, hold the line, and retreat the moment it’s clear. He drew his warhammer as the priest drew his mace, and they took the first of the final steps towards the target. But he didn’t hear as many footsteps as he would’ve wanted. 

“Something’s wrong here, captain.”

Sau. Even in the dark, he could spot the weary old features, crippled with doubt, wary of everything that moved. How this man had seen so many battles in his day, and how he made it through without soiling himself, was beyond him. 

“I’ve seen enough villages like this to know something’s not right. This place, they’ve been avoiding the king’s whole army for ages, and we walked to the doorstep with only one man’s blood on our hands?” He scoffed, and spat. “We all know there’s something afoot.”

“Old man wants more blood, then?” Pileto asked. “Lap up some of the sentry’s when we stick him.”

“He’s right,” Kamilar added. In the pale light of the moon, their faces looked like spirits, old, haunted and haunting. “Something feels off, indeed.”

Exasperated, Castus threw down his hammer. “What’re we to do, then? Head back? We can’t tell the king we found the encampment undefended, loosely guarded, and the prize in reach, and we left for nothing.”

“Fools, the lot of you,” Sau said. “That’s why it isn’t right, and we’re walking into it. Brave and brazen, first to die.”

Castus stepped forward, right up to his face, close enough to feel his breath on him. He looked into his eyes, like that of an old milk cow rather than a soldier’s. “The king said each one of us has lost someone to this. Who’s yours?”

He looked at Kamilar. “The two of us. Our wives. Went out on a march, came back, but they weren’t there waiting. Sometimes we were gone for long stretches, but they were always there. Until they weren’t.”

“Well, if you want to do right by them, put these fears out of your mind and do what needs to be done.”

Sau shook his head. “Little too late to fix things now. But I’ll go. Just think we’re in the thick of it, is all.”

“If we die, then at least we’re through this worrying,” Pileto snapped. “Captain? Set us loose.”

Castus nodded. It wouldn’t be wise to tear into the camp. They didn’t seem heavily armed, but their numbers would more than make up for the lack of them. He sent the two archers forward, seeing their long hair tied up in braids bounding at their backs as they set out into the night. Occasionally he’d see their figures shift in and out of the torchlights set around the tents, possibly seeing their outlines as they passed by campfires. How they managed to run through the deep grass without seeming to make a sound was a secret only for the Queen’s Own.

After a number of agonising minutes of waiting, the arrows finally fell upon the sentry. One in the neck, one in the forehead. The unsuspecting man dropped to his knees and out of sight, as if he was never there at all. 

That was the moment. 

Between the shields of Sau and Kamilar, Castus and the priest made their way to the door. They were far more clumsy, their heavy footfalls making swishing sounds in the grass, quiet as a gentle breeze but sounding like war drums in the dead of night. They were either fortunate or the encampment was apathetic or both, but they found their way without any of the villagers spotting them. The door was heavy and it creaked, but to that they paid no mind; they’d seen people walking in and out, and it would likely be assumed that they were just another visitor. The two heavy men gave a leg up to the archers, letting them take the perch of the man they just slaughtered, giving them sight and an opportunity for escape.

The inside of the only semi-permanent structure in the encampment was more welcoming than it appeared. There was a distinct, not unpleasant smell of burning incense, and the soft lighting of candles painted a picture of serenity in a place they didn’t hope to find it. A straight path led from the door to a makeshift altar at the end of the line, where one could presume the high priest stood. If he was indeed a priest; there were no markings or apparel to imply he was the head of the church, if one was to even call it that. The priest at the end wore the same ragged, battered clothing as the rest, the only difference being a sense of age and formality about him. His face seemed calm, loving, like a grandfather, dimples heavy from worn skin and a friendly disposition. It was not the dark, twisted image of an occultist that he had expected. Stranger yet was they seemed not to take notice of the newcomers, perhaps being so accustomed to strange new faces amongst the congregation.

That is, until the priest pushed past Castus, his apparel unmistakable. With his appearance, there began to be stirrings in the crowd. He coughed at the smell of the incense, waving his hands in front of his face in a showy sense of disgust. Castus, meanwhile, saw a strange familiarity, as if there was a convergence or a borrowing of the teachings of the Radiance, yet unique in its own right. Comforting, for him. The priest only saw it as a mockery.

“Blasphemers!” he shrieked. “Slay them! Slay them all!”

Screams. Plenty of them. Shrill, terrible, and to Sau and Kamilar still holding the door, uncomfortably familiar. The congregants dove to the feet of their priest, begging for the blessed curse of the dagger. They had never seen such profound and terrible urgency to die.

Although he couldn’t see them, Castus could feel the tension in Sau and Kamilar’s hearts, the draw of Dreo and Pileto’s bowstrings ready at his back once they managed to secure the dagger. The idiot, Radian, put them all at risk; the commotion would be loud enough to warn the town, and a horn heard in the distance was more than enough to assure him of the fact. Whether it be soft words or screams, word travels quickly in tiny communities such as this one.

Castus slapped the priest in the back of the head, not hard, but enough to wake him from his fury. The man needed his senses, and needed them now. “Might’ve gotten us killed, now that the whole world knows we’ve arrived!”

“You hit a man of the flame, you-”

Castus struck him again. “No time for this.” He turned to their leader, the old man. “You - hand the dagger over. On orders of the king himself, I-”

The congregants started wailing. Their shrieking cries echoed among the rafters, a grim cacophony of wailing and cries of fear. Their desperation was matched by the invaders who knew their time was running short before they were overrun.

“What are we waiting for?” snapped the priest, his hands shaking with rage. He held his mace forward and called upon his god for strength, sending a blast of power that reverberated from his weapon, pushing aside the pews and sending a wave of dust away from his feet. The nearest congregant toppled to the side, howling in pain as his shoulder was suddenly blasted apart, sending down a rain of blood and bone.

The high priest - if one was to call him that - finally knelt down, tapped his forehead against the man, alive but in agony, and smiled. He whispered a few words in his ear, held the dagger against his throat, and slashed across in one swift, sure motion.

There was no blood. Instead, he seemed to dissolve, drawing into himself before bursting into ash and dust. The remaining congregants were not afraid, nor were they saddened by the loss - it only heightened their desire to meet the same strange fate as their companion.

“Hurry!” he heard Pileto yell from above. “They’re starting to amass outside. They’ve got bows of their own, and they’re -” The sound of an arrow thumping against the wooden building quieted her words, but for a moment. “They’re pressing us hard!” The rest was a slew of profane promises of death and pain.

Castus grabbed Radian by the collar and ripped the mace from his hands. He sat him down on one of the pews. “Stay!” he yelled in his face. He held his warhammer in one strong arm, walked confidently up to the old man, and held it to his chest. “What just happened to that man?”

“His life is gone, and begun anew,” the old man returned. His voice was smooth, calm in spite of things. He winced at the pressure of the warhammer, but kept the same smile he had from the moment Castus saw him.

“What does that mean? Where did he go?” He leaned in closer, pushing past the rest of them, who backed off in the fear of passing into the next life not guided by the dagger’s path. “Tell me! I need to know!”

“It’s blasphemy to even ask such nonsense!” The priest was at his back. Castus turned, grabbed him by the front of his robes, ruffling the pristine white of the cloth, and shoved him back down. 

“You’ll wait,” he said sternly. A priest without his mace was not much to fear, and both knew it as clearly as anyone. Calls came from the two old soldiers at the door and the archers holding the line as well as they could, but he would’ve said the same words to them. There was something he had to know.

“Tell me,” he said to the high priest, but this time with a hint of desperation he had tried to conceal. If the old man sensed it, and old men have a way of reading the younger ones, he didn’t show it. Instead, he just smiled. 

“I think I’ve seen another that looks not unlike yourself,” he said softly.

Castus took a great intake of breath, but settled himself as quickly as he could. His heart raced, faster than the archers, faster than the old men, faster than the screaming priest and the smiling one before him, but he kept it steady as well as he could. “Is that so? And where might he be?”

The high priest held the dagger by the very end of the blade, and beckoned him to take it. “I suppose it would be best to simply look.”

Castus took it from him. He held it in his hand, flipping it from side to side, seeing its craftsmanship. If it hadn’t been for the fact they were worshipping it, he would’ve thought it was little more than an average highwayman’s knife, with nothing particular to note, astounding only due to its average craftsmanship. To think it was something of a holy relic seemed an insult to the term. 

“You have it!” Radian yelled, standing up from the pews. “We have what we wanted! Let’s be free of this place!”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” he heard Pileto call through laboured breaths. “They’ll reach the door soon enough. We can’t keep them at bay forever, and they’re forming up.” Another twang of an arrow’s release. She was fortunate to have found the sentry’s supply of them, and had plenty to shoot. “What’re we waiting for?!” she yelled out before letting loose a battering of curses.

Castus ignored them all. “How do I access this? What is this?” Briefly, he turned to Radian, harkening back to an old calling. “Have we been tricked?”

The old priest stayed calm. It was a miracle he could. He must’ve heard the twang of the bow the same as Castus, and that meant his people were fighting, and considering the quality of the archers in their post, likely dying. “You need to ask it. Not out loud, but in your heart. Truly want to see its offering. It’ll come to you. Close your eyes, and ask.”

After a moment of hesitation, Castus obeyed.

–

The room went silent. The world went silent. It was nothing but darkness for a moment, as if he had been cast into the void, everything and nothing within reach, before he managed to blink himself back into some semblance of existence. He was floating, high, above an idyllic scene. A paradise. Gentle streams teemed with fish; a quiet breeze swayed the high, rolling grasses; distant mountains gave the valley a feeling of comfort, nestled in between their rocky arms like a baby in her cradle. There were people there, unencumbered by anything beyond a desire to enjoy the valley’s offering. They did not work, did not hunt, did not war or fight or quarrel. They just were.

He tilted his shoulder, and found he could move in his hovering state, twisting and urging himself from one position to the next. Everywhere he looked, there were lounging people, the old, the young, but unified in joy and contentment. He searched among the faces. In time, he found who he sought.

“Brother,” he whispered. “Brother,” he repeated in disbelief. 

A man, long dark hair hanging over his eyes the same way Castus’ did, stared up and through his floating form. He looked up and smiled. His front tooth was missing, giving him an awkward grin he was always quietly ashamed of. It came from a fight they had when they were kids. He always wanted to apologise for it, but could never bring himself to do it.

–

Kamilar and Sau braced their shields against the doors, ready for the onslaught. “Pileto!” Sau called. “Dreo! How many are out there!”

“Fewer if you let us-” Dreo’s response was cut short. The sickening thud of arrow meeting flesh cried out from above them. 

“Dreo!” Kamilar called out. Sau only shook his head, closing his eyes. Kamilar was always the hopeful one of the two. Sau felt that only meant he didn’t see the world how he ought to see it.

“Just me now,” Pileto called down. “Got to be thirty down there. They’re hesitant. They don’t want to attack while I’m still here.”

“Why not?” Kamilar asked. “You’re good, but you’re just one.”

She snorted. “Why would they? They know we’ve got nowhere to run.” She steadied her nerves as best she could to keep her voice from trembling. She’d been in worse, she told herself. She hadn’t, but the thought was comforting, and she clung to it. She thought of her sister at her side, living until she looked closer at her, putting the thought out of her mind. And she thought of the other, missing for so long, and drew strength from the rage and desperation that burned inside her. She’d let it out, now.. “Not that I’d want to run, anyway. My place is here. And may they send more than just those thirty.”

–

Castus forced himself back into reality, or reality as he knew it, or out of his imagination, or whatever it was that happened to him. He stepped right up to the high priest and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, almost tearing the dirty fabric, lifting his small frame off the ground. “Who was that? What was that? Did you trap him there?”

“Voluntary, voluntary,” the old priest said, raising his hands. “It’s where we all want to go.”

“Then why take this long? Just go! Take the dagger and slaughter all of them!” he said with a wave of his hand towards the congregation. Instead of shying away, they leaned forward. It unnerved him, reminding him of cattle that got too friendly with the farmer only to be led to the butcher’s door. 

“They all wish to, in time. But those who see the dagger’s promises must earn it. We must bring more to the cause. If we all died today, who would be there to bring souls to its loving embrace?”

Castus had enough. Locking eyes on the high priest, nostrils flaring like a bull, he thrust a hand out to his right and plunged the dagger through the neck of a man at his side. Blood sprayed across the congregants, and while they jumped, they didn’t fall away or try to strip it from him. Whatever one would say about the mad group, they were true believers in the cause. 

“Alright. That man’s dead,” he said, pointing at the corpse laying across his feet, a man looking as if he was in his forties, but a moment later, little more than dust. “We’ll see.”

Castus gripped the dagger tightly and entered its world again. He searched the bodies, found his brother again but refused to look his way, and saw the man he had just killed. He had his hands stretched out against the ground, crying, smiling, tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. 

—

“They’re forming up!” he heard Kamilar call from a distance. “They’ve got shields… our arrows won’t find their mark, and with just us two here… we’ve got to move!”

“Captain!” Radian yelled. “We move now! Get marching or we’ll-”

“Shut it! Shut it.” Castus snapped back. “I need to think.”

“You’ll be reprimanded for this. Buried out in the fields, deep in the ground away from the light, far from any sanctuary, never to find peace, and - give me my mace!” He grabbed at it, getting a hold of the handle. 

It was the last movement he made. Castus twisted, shifting the weight of the smaller man, turning him and flipping him over his shoulder in one fluid motion. With a second, he buried the dagger deep into his chest. The priest’s eyes bulged, and a horrible wheezing escaped his lips. His right foot kicked out, hard at first, then softly, then not at all. When he finally breathed his last, his body did not dissolve in dust as the others’ had. Instead, it sat there, eyes still wide in shock, arms akimbo in the abrupt indignity, before abruptly bursting into flame - the fiery, dramatic farewell of all priests of the Radiance.

Castus ripped the dagger from his chest and entered the world again. He searched, finding nothing but quiet streams, people gently conversing, his brother and the newcomer chatting quietly while drinking the waters. He looked far and wide, but the priest was not there.

He came back into the world brimming with fury. “Priest!” he yelled, loud enough to make the congregants step back. “Where is he? He’s dead by your tool, where has he gone?”

The priest shook his head. “Only those that wish to enter, enter. A priest of the Radiance may not choose to join us.”

“Pileto!” he heard Kamilar cry out. It hardly registered in his mind. 

Castus rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth in frustration. “My priest. He’s not in your paradise, then. Well, what if he’s in his own? The Radiance, it’s real, this mace,” he said, lifting it up and inspecting it, the object making the congregants crawl backwards. That was not the death they wished for. “This mace has done real and terrible things. There’s power here. And I can’t wield it. It’s not like the swing of a hammer; it’s done through more than just might. There’s something behind that.”

“I’m sure there is,” the old priest replied calmly. “But it’s not my path. Nor was it your priest’s, as you can tell.”

Castus stared long and hard at the dagger, pushing the sounds of swords and the thumping of arrows digging into wood out of his mind. Kamilar and Sau would hold, for a time. Long enough to make his decision, anyway. He inspected the dagger, the simplicity of it, the lack of balance.

“Call them off,” Castus said. “Let my guards walk. They can tell the priests of the Radiance whatever they wish when they return.”

The congregants didn’t know how to react. Some shuffled uncomfortably, a few whispered to one another, but most just kept their eyes locked on the dagger, fearful for their own mortality, and specifically the means in which they’d meet it. The priest, however, just clasped his fingers together and nodded. “I believe that would be agreeable.”

They walked together, side by side, with Castus still marvelling at the simple dagger. 

“Kamilar, Sau,” he said to the men who were locking their shields against the door. Sweat poured down their foreheads, panic etched across their faces. Through laboured breaths they tried to speak about the well-being of the archers above them, but Castus cut them off quickly. “You’ll be taken care of, as will they” he said. “Let the priest through. He’s going to tell his men to stand down. You’ll be allowed to go.”

“Dreo, Pileto-”

“If they’re alive, carry them with you, if you can.”

Kamilar sauntered up to Castus. “You saw something in there.” His captain nodded in return. “Your brother?” Another nod. Kamilar turned back, saw Sau, and nodded to him in turn. “Our wives will be in there, won’t they? Whatever you saw. Did you see two… heavy-set lasses? Probably looked like friends, even there, I’d be thinking.”

“Might’ve.”

“Hmm.” Kamilar hitched up his shield. “You sure they won’t be shooting me in the back?” he said, motioning towards the still-ready warriors that lined the outskirts of the makeshift church.

“I’m sure,” Castus assured him. Kamilar turned away from him and started walking the long path back, Sau at his side. “You… don’t want to see them?”

Sau turned back. Again the sad eyes, big, like a dog’s. “Captain, if they wanted to see us, they would’ve waited back then. Whatever they came here for, I hope they found. I’ll stay with the Radiance. They don’t need us barging in.” He looked forward. “Kam? Let’s head out.” He only took one more step before he turned back a final time. “Is it really… is it nice, this place?”

“Yeah,” Castus said. “It’s nice.”

Sau nodded, and moved quickly to catch up with Kamilar. 

The high priest was behind them now. Patient, as were the rest of the townsfolk, in spite of the fact they had just had arrows rained down on them. “You’re missing one, still - oh, and speak of the Darkness, the archer graces us with her presence.”

“Pileto,” Castus whispered. She was in the doorway. There was blood on her, and while it appeared that it wasn’t all hers, much of it surely was. As for Dreo, she was nowhere to be seen. 

“Dreo’s gone. Lost both sisters to this.” Castus winced, familiar with the loss of kin. “You promised me. Promised me blood and vengeance. Now what am I seeing? You’re with them. Has it been the whole time?”

“No. No, I saw him-”

“I don’t care what you think you saw.” She drew a dagger of her own, but her strength was fading, and her legs wobbled, and there wasn’t much of a threat to him physically, but mentally in having to deal with it. She charged, broken and bleeding, not at the high priest but at Castus. He held her arm as she thrust a half-hearted attempt at him, and plunged the ritual dagger deep into her chest.

“Please,” he whispered to her. “Please, let it take you.”

She tried to spit curses at him, but it came out only in blood. She slumped further. There was no pile of dust, nor a burst of flame. Just a body, cold and growing colder.

There was a hand on his shoulder. The high priest. “Only those that wish it,” he whispered.

He looked to the piles of dust behind him, the remnants of the congregants. Then, the remains of the priest, Radian, burned up in ash. The draft from the church caused the piles, the small, earthly remnants, to dance together, indecipherable. He held the dagger tightly in his hands. He asked to stay.